It's not that this place
is mostly meant for children,
or that the goats spit on people,
or that it smells like a Chipotle urinal.
The way the sheep look at me
unnerves me,
like they know me,
they know where I have been,
Docile eyes staring through me
like a lover.
I pat their head, and they don't flinch.
They don't ask for more.
They seem ok with my limited commitment to the encounter,
and they know I am fascinated by that.
Kate was the same way.
Back off, sheep. I'm not buying another ring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem