To rest, deft pretence, to rest –

shear your gloves with the zoo

of most incompatible common sense,

to bark and howl and squawk with full obedience -

the kind you are.

Be it a room of peacock eyes, singed in the heat

where no open window grooms,

or the quiver rut of rabbit clots,

breathing tightly in a burrow -

know your gut and the great gulping sorrow

and dress it up with

a contamination as sweet as a dribbling kiwi,

prickle sheaved and plush concealed

as green giddy never minds and gush.

Your motives, others will speed,

tread the dirt like a nobleman,

and toast their talents in the wake

of the colour draining from your words –

a herd of disappearing tracks, rushed –

a suicide; where the land is sped to a dipping crush

and the day you fed in your head,

cloaked up like a cap on a kestrel.

Be the coarse spitting thicket on the crust

of the curd, growing thick to the honesty -

a mid-day, where you will travel through,

preserved and on display –

always brought, but never picked, 

their bellies already so full of you.

You, they know so well - acres of nothing

chopped up for a yard sale; tin winks

and scratches of red, comic sheets,

doll legs and marbles

that grow in their hands, a currency

they will never know  - the blue slipped in,

so precise

in the smooth and unbreakable glass.