Latching little hooks On a disused picture antenna The fledglings broadcast in chattering yips, squawks, squabbles and whistles That sometimes dip. Like they know that 1 is missing.
Open under a seared brow, And set in thick and rolling skin, Wobbling But glimmering under a head of horns: A beest’s inky eye.
In the rage, I cut my shape in granite skies, With horns twisted and skyward In the rage, I stand like a gnarled cathedral Wrought with hot hammers and tongs.
On the dry dazzle of baked crust Dusty stilettos clop As the donkeys in striped pyjamas End a rough night With a few thirsty gulps.