They are afraid of dolls.

Their genitals are dry.

They are drawn to mountains and motorways.

There have no fear of flying.

Their temper cannot be lost – it is chained

like a dear dog.

They think the Bible is valiant.

They love the way starfish can grow back a limb.

They cannot come, or hiccup,

but convincingly fake both.

They can see through our clothes, into our guts,

read what we are made of.

They are always on the surface of the sea –

they cannot get wet.

They cannot drown either: they loiter

on the inter-tidal zone.

They use onions or pepper to cry

when watching soap operas or weddings.

Their feet are always very pretty,

soles soft as a new-born.

They learn white lies, learn to tell them like a joke.

If they win a race it is not deliberate.

They make vigilant life-guards and paramedics.

They like to think about magic.

Music does not work

but their singing voices are always astounding.

They remember every birth,

find the vanishing point in shop windows,

walk over hot coals, and pray

one day, they might burn.