after the shearing

we run in the nude

pinkish gut, damp in the rain

mouthful of wool, hushed our tears

do not overflow, our bleats

muted warm.

​

back in the pen

sleep is brief

our heartbeats pressed

upon one another

calls dampened in the wind

​

discolored slumber, we were

never taught how to leap

somewhere else, someone is

counting sheep,

fencing so low we can dream.

​

(2020)