They flop their big, blunt heads over the wire
like dim children penned in hospital cots.
Eyes roll, and a silvery iris-petal
unfurls to lick the salt from my bare arm.
Then each takes it in turn to show its backside
in a long, lumbering furniture removal.
Bored with my love, they lean to their emerald feast.
They never tire of it. They are factories
building themselves in many meat-hung chambers.
In the dusk they grow hugely vague as gods
wrapped up in a slow and difficult creation.
Their constant hunger pours
like pity over the landscape.
Darkly they use it, return it.
They’re the blood-dense heart of its greenness.

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