He would raise his food between his forefeet and carefully bite into it.
His eyes on the sides of his head were obsidian planets.
He spoke only when in pain.
His snout was fringed with bursts of white whiskers.
He was an autopoietic system.
His many toes were long and pink, each with its claw.
His pink skin tail was as long as his body and faintly brushed with stiff translucent hairs.
He was a universe.
He was creamy white with black shoulders.
His fur was streamlined from teeth to tail-root.
He spoke only when in pain.
Humans kept him in a one-metre cage where he lived for two autumns, two springs.
Humans brought him edible pellets and shredded documents.
Humans squeaked at him, William, William.
He was an autopoietic system.
He made a warm familiar ratsmelling nest.
He stored some food for the winter.
He was a universe.
On the seventh day humans threw out everything he had and brought back the ink smell.
He made a warm familiar nest.
He stored some food.
On the seventh day humans threw out everything he had.
He made a warm nest.
He stored food.
On the seventh day humans threw out everything.
From A coat of ashes
Jackson 