Snow geese purr along river’s rippled ridges,
Wings flapping slantwise on the aqua incline.
They are in no hurry, though they glide fast
And ignore the rats scrabbling through quarries.
The spoils go to the persistently dull
Manuring communal poetic crops
With galloping hectares of solid waste.
The only attempt is to remain alive,
And benedictions will drench my bent blunt brow
Like volcanic mud-cum, or custard
When ripping a fruit-cup flap on an airplane
And it splooges the eye and the matron’s thigh.
So it's on to seven thousand frowsty barbs.
Pump the stomach pump, it‘s viral invasion.
Hunched in upright fetal, the world looks bigger
But its wombroof is stuck with slime and time.
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