Chicken Coop
I take long strides to the outermost edges
of a wood filled with shapes
so long they never end. I'm drawn to dark places.
I spend my time alone, trusting my instinct.
Beyond the fence is a coop, busy as a market.
I hunt for chicken – a spit of meat, feather and bone.
I turn my back on rabbits, and human scraps
rotting in rainbow wrappers like an invitation to die.
On hot, fizzing nights, farmers short-cut through the wood.
They piss on the ferns. The ferns grow thicker.
They carry shot-guns. If I die I'll haunt them for coming here,
to my alone place, to piss on the ferns,
shoot at my shadow.
of a wood filled with shapes
so long they never end. I'm drawn to dark places.
I spend my time alone, trusting my instinct.
Beyond the fence is a coop, busy as a market.
I hunt for chicken – a spit of meat, feather and bone.
I turn my back on rabbits, and human scraps
rotting in rainbow wrappers like an invitation to die.
On hot, fizzing nights, farmers short-cut through the wood.
They piss on the ferns. The ferns grow thicker.
They carry shot-guns. If I die I'll haunt them for coming here,
to my alone place, to piss on the ferns,
shoot at my shadow.