Runcible Spoon

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September

 

He feels cold somewhere behind his chest wall

and walks the long way home trying to stall

Autumn. At the end of the lane sheep

hit. Smell of dark-hay, ammonia. Bleats

beat—

             descending pitch

                                       two echoes of first.

Sheep eyes try to disappear in the ears,

top lip clefts the mouth into the nose.

They are ear-eyes; nose-mouth. The fleecy

false suggestion of muscle bears neon graffiti.

 

At school they learned that sheep eat trees

before birth. The patter of hooves compacts soil.

Cause of floods: woolly maggots in green deserts.

He likes their swollen maggoty ripple,

He likes sheep. They are stupid too.

 

He imagines life in an old sheet

camping in a green desert. He does not pretend

he would pull pretty gowns from wool

but can see a tea towel – tied Bedouin-style.

In the valley he can hear the A38 roar.

 

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