Undulant pinecone,

needle-nose sniffer,
I imagine you mountain-size,

monstering a city.
You are harder to pick up than Hungarian,

more stand-offish that a stylite saint.
Little high judge in your wig of thorns,

its pattern complex as a deal in the Senate,
once a year

you queue for spiky sex
then crash burrow-wards

through the bracken curtain.
You are distant as Aldebaran.

Private as euthanasia.