macport
(iii)

squirrel
it feels like the place
a squirrel would like
had they invented foundries
clockwork lives

i imagine rooms
carved in magnificent tree
a cliché oak
that concealed
the escaping publican

looking out
through leaves not there
ironic city

trains of cows and bulls
transport fox and sustenance
to fuel electric nights
in temples
to sandstorm and lice