As though outside under a
charred sky that’s the lifted bun
of a burger that’s like the wet, new road
at night and like the filthy dirt
and the windowless body of a cow
and the frantic kissing
of the competent plants,
their petals bruised and shaky
and so, so nude to your pilfered look –
as is this spit-shone,
rubbed-up stomp inside my bosom.
O egg of stiffening greed.
(From The Itchy Sea)