This blunt nosed wombat, greedy mega-faun,

transforms obstacles to sustenance, chews

 his way through your front door, your doormat

on his back. Rudely, he celebrates

daggy mud gloves, or parades in pleated rain,

a stray feather stuck to one ear. He can

even whistle his way inside a mechanical warbler.
On boiling cloud days the whole landscape is

his change of clothes. To gloss the painful

rift between the self and not, what's truly

seen is mouthed, tongued, brightened with

the spittle of a word. More, he fumbles

into its sleeves; leaks soul stuff, as only

those for whom the flesh is also raiment can.