a honeyeater’s beak invades her ear canal – watch,
the concrete’s too yeasty
Cu Chi tunnels zipping and unzipping
her wide, brown lands, for me.
secrets churning, plenipotentiary dust
risen against a burning will.
the soil’s birthright lives a lucid death
nothing to grow. We have rules, you know
a Council for that
a man with a chainsaw wondering where to go
too much green just anywhere
can’t say as i’ve seen it lately though
whistle for the sheepdog, round-up such avarice and vice
Zone 12, depiction C, sub-set 88B. fit me for a Form or two
just to be precise in our total inexactitude.
sus · tain · a · bil · i · ty,
what was that, Luv?
it wants filling out again
the dog’s a bit fat to run.
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