They’ve had so many jobs:
boiling African porridge. Being printed on.
Paving Paris, flying in her revolutions.
Supporting a stork’s nest in Spain.
Their suits are neater abroad,
of denser drape, unnibbled:
they’ve left their parasites at home.
They flower out of bullets
and, without any taproot,
draw water from way deep.
When they blow over
they reveal the black sun of that trick.
Standing round among shed limbs
and loose slabbings of bark
is homeland stuff
but fire is ingrained.
They explode the mansions of Malibu
because to be eucalypts
they have to shower sometime in Hell.
Their humans, meeting them abroad,
often grab and sniff their hands.
Loveable singly or unmarshalled
they are merciless in a gang.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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