“Clipsus” was the name of a feathered horse; it raced through the waters, through the rivers to the seas, and preened itself with a camel’s neck. On a Monday in 1980 it fell from the showerhead of a frightened boy, and there it was whispered of a shadow that pirouetted on the four walls. The source of the light casting the shadow: over a score of mail drop boxes clothed in amber flames, strung like the washing on traffic light wires high in the atmosphere, between the horizons and the satellites.
The face that needled around into this context, the snout with the many locked teeth, snapped by newspaper and driven away again into the backwaters of gypsum mud pots and etcetera. On the way the girders laid by the frightened boy hummed with distant trains, the zero-electric phone wires that tied wheels to wheels between the worlds in war or peace, in all the liquid pathways where Clipsus goes.