(How we do art –) Coming from sex or going to fetch pie from the plate on the table for someone who’s already asleep, having forgotten asking for pie, you trip over the dog, and you, the dog and you, go tumbling down, thinking – the human you now – so now I’m a motion-study, futurism for dummies, cue laugh-track: zhe outraygeous waiter tips the desert-cart, cannolis, crème-puffs spilling. So you’re breaking up, having gone downstairs to get desert, mister or missus head knee elbow nipple balls sex made all-one, now grunting spiraling air-thrusting thinking if I had wings I’d touch feather-light down on the landing, I’d bring this on a plate for you to smile at, rubbing the sheet between your legs. But what of that? Then there’s no man or girl waiting above, there are no sheets to rub, no love-smell, there’s no landing, either, and only the waked dog eating your pie.