He stands at the mic,
craggy faded eagle
in a grey suit, singing the verse
in a voice of smoke
There's a gorilla in my back yard.
I'm making friends with him,
as he moves toward my world.
The problem is pike:
a pair in the lake,
and these savage predators
I gazed across the valley
at the mute, brown hills beyond,
dappled with dark, round, oaks,
that remind me of Africa's veld.
Nature's conjunctions are invisible,
everything's conjoined, and language
only a dimwitted mimic