is the lawn’s obscurement.
Is mouths on mouths
on green ground down.
A deep congregation feeds
and heaps, outed
to the open in glorious
click and collision,
in singular aim to eat
a body’s worth
of plant materials, grazers’
coats. To wedge into
every fencepost’s
painted cavity
and unfold there,
huge in chorus.
Anyone can tuck up
as roots under a roof’s
protection, but to exist
outside of human designs
demands obedience
to instinct. Not from
hearing but in feeling.
In feeling always, not
in seeing. Always
feeding.
Had I more feelers in me
to subsist through
a sensory practice,
I would not be keeping
a beady eye out.
Would not be I
at all, but of.