The sound wafts through delicate guts, upsetting stomachs.
When he plays, the butter refuses to come in the churn;
cows defecate, visibly distressed.
You have rarely seen such orbits as are made
by his gentle grey pom-pom before it meets
the dimpled bronze. He laughs at our skittishness:
it only goads him to delay the stroke for longer,
then - when it lands - to bring the stick down
harder, stronger.
No comments:
Post a Comment