Cyclones twisted like yarn, strung over the faded horizon with a handful of frayed pathways and drawn out roads which cross and tangle without noticing each other.
Four wheels arranged in a flat square, a bicycle mirrored upside-down above, drive a fifth wheel that circles them in a great hoop. It whistles and chirrups as it is pedalled through the wastes, a whirligig on its side like a cyclops’ coin, wandering the dry regions. Socotra trees spread bristling parasols, and a camera jams on a lantern when the animals step from the wallpaper, and begin the hunt in the upstairs parlour.
With a trumpet throat the mammal sirens for those on the roads to make way for the wandering train, veiled and shadowed in bristling dust and fractal spires.