From the Journal of Martial Canterel

A serpent tours the author's boucles
which are set out in a grille in an upright frame.
Perhaps a word for earth is at once its rung,
then hammer, glue, and mezzanine, and it seeks
the piebald indian corn cob and parchment
night shade, whose sleeve sewn end
forms a carriage for the snake to descend
using the weight of the piebald indian corn
cob crayon helmet, whose one end is hollow
for the head, and whose other, holds a green
crayon fitted into a snugget, which, in a parody
and an homage, the snake will use to write with
in the manner of an author, somehow translating
the cryptic loopy boucles into a text of its own.

The snake's text

Here in the dark mezzanine, I find a globe
of black stone, its surface engraved with the
continents. And were it not for the hundreds
of small hammers magnetized to its surface
with handles facing out like pylons, I would
never be able to attempt the climb, its record,
becoming the slippage in a set of hammers
as I move. At the north pole, I find a hole, and
enter in, journeying to the core of the world
where I live in ecstasy, until I venture out again
through the south pole to continue, my body
is the weather of passive magnetic hammer vermin.


note: the globe itself could also necessarily be a resonator producing sound,
and the change in the position of the hammers would alter the sound, so
that the snake would be its author.