The torn lamb meat is already howling with the wolves.
In furs the police officers go around and mate
with twin-engined saws. Fruits of weary anger
are rotting in fallen leaves under piles of leaflets.
Jays croak, no woodpecker taps into wood.
The lambs lick sump oil. None of them eat from your hand.

Road-sweeping machines crawl out of valleys, throw up dust.
Lambs relax strengthened, bleating into spring.
None of them eat from your hand. The world smells
of soap, curdled milk and short breath.
Forest noises force us out, stupid as sheep.
Cinema seats collapse. Mossy mattresses hang in the sky.

translated by Peter Skrzynecki