We are caught in the claw
of the natural machine,
complete and almost
the sum of the parts,
segments of blood and
soil perfectly fitting,
feeling the bolt slipping,
the animus fighting over
entrails of the animal and
lying with it carefree,
precursors of organised dust
longing for our wildness
remote as the TV,
with the urgency of breathing,
the air that beats on lungs,
still in a long forbidden hunt
for the mastery of being