Territorial pig. What have I done to deserve this treatment? I often confuse him with shadows. Stop it with your nuzzling of the clover, your canoodling
with spider web women.
The bow tie ‘round your pink throat is a fake; you bought it at a costume shop.
Who do I commiserate with
except a green horsefly I find sitting on the beach? His legs are crossed. He speaks in a low voice, grave, an accent—
the ocean pulled my friends in, he says,
and he is mournful. Now it’s laughing at him in green; the mollusks all sing fight songs;
the white old hair of the sea spreads like lightning;
the yellow feet of seagulls pace the black sand and demand food.
In the distance are the mountains. It is raining again. I don’t have an answer for him.
All this man can worry about is trespassing, he says. God, he’s down.
He’s got a dummy on his knee—you know that, right?--who delivers his speeches for him, and in the end,
how can you care for a creature like that?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment