The cockatoos are cameras
with legs. They weigh washing lines
down the middle. The cars in the street
have dedicated ASIO agents
mimicking acceleration and sudden
brake noises, like a toddler pretending to be
asleep, unwatchful. I will
never be got. I’m a happy soul
I have a schizo-heart. The machines
are alive, their phloem is
thumping in real-time. The bees

know/ignore this:
they function as they always do
in the mouth of a lion/archon: converting
pre-necrotic flesh and sinews
into glucose. A drone
hums in the neighbour’s camellias
the bees continue to bee. Above

the moon is semi-visible. From
the Silurian
to Capitalocene, it has been stone
and a lesbian. Nothing
changes, nothing is
changing, nothing has— like
a silver coin of a Roman emperor—
changed hands. The bees
mint their terms/sugar, you watch the moon
border your lines of sight. A satellite winks.