Right now, it's like this

You cannot prevent a visit from the Shearer. Strong

hands soft from lanolin.

You there. Locked inside your pen. You know sodden

slop. You know governed by. And unwise to continue.

You know welt. Crust. Flood. And standing

in water, thirsty.

The Shearer comes before the shorn. Naked

implies vulnerability. By which future

shadows might feel rough on your new

skin. There will come

a time when the Shearer is done.

And here, bleating sometimes bleeding

into the nearby alfalfa

field, ewe, run.