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Portrait of a Pig

The pig shifts
as a mugger wind rifles it for possessions,

possessing a particular love
for bristles like the sproutings in an old man’s ears.

And though one moment devoid
of motor function

the pig turns and snorts
like a lawn sprinkler. Fst Fst.

I remember heaving a pane of glass indoors,
the thought of it fluid between my fingers

but the weight substantial
and all its parts eager to strike out on their own.

This is to say the pig is an untenable thing
the mind pours into, no more constant

than the mathematical values of Θ,
here deducing the curve of a snout.

But the pig is not solely projection –
Still point of a zoopraxiscope –

any more than it’s all anima
endowed with a butter-slathered body.

And when the pig hangs its head
over a wall, it’s both boundless

and contained, a slap-resonant space
where the pig is – and then within which isn’t.