listens to the tongues
before it speaks, waltzes
through the airport, watches
the sheared and the plump buy
seven dollar water and pamper
themselves for the slaughter,
hears the words and doesn’t recognize
the language and looks for boys
gelled long black faux hawk hair
for comfort. The fields are turned
to benches, the trees metal columns,
the mating rituals absent and the wind
in the leaves just a loud speaker
of announcements. But then
oh look, there’s another moon couple
in sheep’s clothing, old and wheelchaired
and headed for Quito to roam in the siesta
afternoon away from the flock.
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