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.