Sonnet #315

Indifferent to the fascist state, the wild pigs

come before the morning twilight, to eat

among the food packaging left along the street

They have no natural predators, these pigs

Perhaps a car might strike them, or a hunter

With a strong gun, or a trap, but once they gather

In the fields, there's little left around to bother

And they wander where they will. Never

do they think of order, never do they think

That buildings can be made on purpose

By beings just like them. They sniff and sink

Their jaws into the detritus, and relish those

bits of food cast out between our teeth, our drinks'

melted ice pooled. Indifferent to fascism imposed.