Should the goat consume the shed, women and children are convoked into the church, whilst the men fire shots with their rifles to dispel those great ants which, they fear, will in their turn devour the silly goat. This time is fraught with swallowing and dangerous. The priest rings the bells of his church, the children bang on saucepans with spoons. They make a silver storm. Events have each their proper hour. The goat must be afforded time to digest and fatten on the shed light. The breeze which riffles his beard is of that same tenuous plasma which blows the meat from our own bones. The children suck their forefingers and prod them in the air to determine the direction of flow. No idleness here! The din from the church in the middle of the night is dire and raucous. Before the church, menfolk valiantly discharge ancient shotguns in a cloud of rust. Within, the womenfolk draw down their ancient gods. Reverence and noise, terror, interpretation and awe: each to his own. And so it works.

great aunts are very swallowing and dangerous
they live all their lives in broughams and monocles
sometimes they recite poetry to frighten you
I have spent entire months trembling for their assignations
I have heard them hooting in supermarkets at the full moon
when they rattle their clavicles entire cities come to a stop
even those who are all masonite and six inch nails
eventually I suppose they must die like everything else
but the spoons of imagination will not let me believe it