How like a fresh hole in my trouser cuff
This stretch of afternoon inspires me to grief.
How like a noose of charming praise
This holy temple I am walking past.
How like a fist raised up to razor wire
This goat farm, its independence and its smell.
How like a locomotive of shame
This trumpet of cold air, a pealing crease
In the stitch of sleeping. How like a goose
In honking flight, this wristwatch of destiny.
How like a set of Tinker Toys this burly
Complaint, a hair in knots around a finger
How like the tiny whiz of a wind up car
Held up in the air this on and on I whirl.
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