The zoo gets dressed every century in the north without hands. An introduction to its nudity– each part dreams in place. The monkey is happy that the entire world is imprisoned in a bowl of water, outside his fragrant cage. “Everyone else thinks they’re free but they can’t tickle me.” While the frog collects records from the eighties, spinning and prehensile blinking a party of forgetful ponds in the inspiration of covalence, the imitation of another. Concept of silence, street whisper, sky sound, road’s voice. A truck with a basket slithered through the woody swamp. This new creature to dwell next to, not into, not upon. Curious glances on southern porches salted the uninvaded language. This truck, this basket birthed a break of clouds and a penguin. Zoo gasping, blistered verb, “Must we be invaded?” Wind blows through the cages, blowing popcorn through the maze, a pinball path of the patrons, to blink and light upon one another, the click of flippers to the animals eyes in radiance. At night, the frog looked at magazines and twisted up sound. The monkey dared to midnight, “Oh penguin my penguin.” The moon daring whispered, “Ye newish pengle.” But no reflect of consequence in the humdrum of darkness. Another day ate another tumbleweed day in the dirt so then the frog chalked across the gulf, “Sweet and sharp penguin– Your tuxedo is a Russian rocket. Friend me. Befriend me.” But no respond of noticeable inch did touch the night fabric. The animals were woven from one another by the cement lanes and faintly glimpsed the elegant slope of bars and ovals. While the world parade daily, dumbly intercepted them. Such is the greasy hair to be combed by gawkers and criers. They believed in blueprints somewhere to learn them– though always the having and lacking of money distracted this. The monkey remembered again the world was trapped outside a cage, ate an obscene banana, dreamed of a penguin, whispered, “Oh, shy and beautiful, shy-silent creature. Come to be free and to live life in a joy of an animal.” One could glimpse the pudgy silhouette of the quiet angel, listening to such proposition with glee and restraining. The frog wrote a poem and painted a picture of a frog, sending them pony express across the night gulf of stars. Saying, “We dream in the same odd language of dancers, little penguin, you are more beautiful than an ostrich.” The lovers wailed in synchronous rejection of aloof. Only again the zookeeper chuckled through the ring of trees, facsimile of a landscape of a world of a heart. The clumsy patrons in a dried-out Western of morbidity. Nothing more disenheartening than a zoo filled with introverted animals. Waiting for the smile in the mirror that never smiles but just reflects. The monkey cried out to the frog, “Quit your amorous advance on my special penguin who is boggled by your love poem.” The frog cried out to the monkey, “You are too old to understand my penguin’s certain love. Leave the quiet creature.” Darkness did dismember their quarrel– strange concealer. In a war across the chasm, a grave across the canyon. The monkey shot a catapult of gunpowder and paint, splattering and flashing in a rhythm with the cosmos. The frog fired the slingshot with stink bombs and stones. A hail and conversation of foul material the zoo did gossip, sympathy in the balance like sunrise in the desert, until the rivals extinguished their ammunitions and slept. The world sews its cloths and billows back together. The patrons glumly wander through the battlefield. No one is happy. Everyone is sleeping. The monkey, with trembles and bass, slipped between the bars into the cage of the outside world, midnight now. No insects glowed in those negative lanes of air. The monkey brushed fur hair, walking, came to the side. “I love you, penguin. I must break the boundary.” The knucklebone fist cracked the plastic glass of the penguin pen, secondly shatter chunked into ice floe fragments. Demonstrating animals connection across a frozen void, Knight armor split to pieces nodding in the turquoise water. The monkey shivered and embraced the ancient icon of a penguin– finding it to be a plastic statue with runes for eyes and a blazing mythic sound ever between its beak teeth. The monkey shivered and loved upon the ancient plastic penguin in the absence of a zoo or a cage or a lane or a key. They were floating on an ice floe in a bleeding purple night. The monkey shivered in the shadow of the glacier and still to love the penguin, and to love the penguin, looking in the violet artic cloud garments. “At least we have one another,” the monkey chattered and looked into the inifinte distance of the top of the world and, somehow, it missed the frog.