I was visiting Paul Klee and I had to pee. I went into this bathroom and saw a toucan's claw Where did he get it? I wanted to know. It started to snow. Paul mad tea. I was empty of pee and went back to the kitchen where he was watching the water boil. Life of toil, emptiness and art, where does pleasure start? The toucan's beak? The strong over- powering the weak? I looked out the window and saw a pigeon with a twig in its maw. Paul put teabags into a teapot and later poured tea into a teacup for me, and tea into a teacup for him. We drank tea and watched the snow, and Paul told me everything I wanted to know about the terrible life the toucan had, and why he kept its claw upon his toilet. Telling you this story would soil it, so let's be content with watching the flakes, so much like leaves, wedding caks scattered, or wedding dresses tattered When the tea was done we said a prayer for the sun, and hoped it would come back one day. Paul had nothing more to say. I left him then. The artist and his toucan claw, the snow like matrimonials: jungle leaves of green, a lushness for which the artist grieves, a pigeon obsessed with a twig I lit a cig- arette. The smoke rose in the winter sky like a minaret. I called myself to prayer, watching Paul's silhouete prance and pirouette in the window, in the warm glow of his next show.