the insects come when you leave the net
don't you get it, swelling broth queen
slovening around in ochre
until your rump (thanks to its funnel-wheels) rotates
maimed into the earth
where the lyres are waiting, elysian alpine meadow
where there's a scent of lamentation
and running shoes wear what you carry off

crawl through the frost
grass-blades glazing your thighs
hair mousse foaming out of the water, courtyard
of your poverty, derust the winds
thin katabatics
oil your feet well!
And spit on your fists, squeeze your gall bladder
out of the net
surrounded
all-round (all together, bestiary)