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.
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