When the pile of broken glass is swept away there appears a dire wolf with her mouth propped open with a popsicle stick. The wolf’s face is actually a mask that splits in two to reveal a mink’s face beneath it. In the cold dawn you can see that the mink face is attached to the end of a stole bursting with moth eggs. In the glass I watch a beautiful woman leave the store wearing a porcupine coat. That night I dream of amber lidless eyes, of sides of venison curing in tanning beds. A month later I see her again, stepping out of a taxicab in downtown Winnipeg wearing a coat made of stitched-together rubber Halloween masks. I try to follow her through the crowd but keep slipping on the icy sidewalk. I see her again at a bar in a Chinese restaurant where she's sitting alone, poking at the olives in her glass. Her neck is studded with diamonds and the pelt of a giant centipede curls around her milky shoulders. The rest is a blur and the next thing I know I’m taking a break from vomiting long enough to watch a tiny translucent worm inching its way through the forest of my arm hair. In the haze it turns into a snake wearing a fur coat weaving its way between the crashing icicles. I stagger back out to the bar and order another shot. In the spotlight behind me, animatronic prospectors jerkily pan for gold to tinny recorded piano tinkling. I look down at my drink and see the reflection of her dark, wet eyes. The teeth of flytraps brush my eyelids in a butterfly kiss. The room stinks of lo mein and wet wolf fur. I shake my head and blink and see a stranger’s face beside me lit by the icy blue of a glowing phone. I jump off my stool. Slap of the dog door, cat door, snake door. She’s dropped through a knothole in the floor, leaving a greasy mongoose cape heaped behind. I flick my tongue at the ice in my glass and hiss.