I hate feeling

that home

is a place

where

all I have

to do

is fix

things. Moving

money, shovelling

words from

one part

of the

country

to the

next,

resettling

livestock.

Big puffy

ones

that are

clearly

getting

fed differently

from the

days

when you

were the sole

approach.

I feel sad about

what

my life

has grown

into:

a series

of bangs,

soup, all

of us

doing

our job in

this ancient

& lonely

way. I’m

a shepherd

that’s

what I

am. Craning

my neck

so

far &

wide

the world

is empty.

There

is no

lamb.