Summer blooms but then so does fungus
Wraps round fingers like a ring
Which clouds the receiver with misty murmurs
Through which people talk, yet birds can sing.
We buy coats, yet other creatures just acquire them
We heel our shoes, if just to make a sound
And we go to zoos, and it is despondent
When we survey ourselves, then look around.
For man can clothe himself, albeit with cruelty
The only creature that can feel ill with pride
For the better animals are in the cages
And it is the real exhibition which happens outside.
The paradoxical evenings where we drink ourselves dry
Or calling up when there is no one home
And cry ourselves to sleep, but it’s only natural, as now
The telephone shrilling on its hook of bone.