By | 1 May 2018

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.

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