Planet Earth

Because we are not herds
and sleep in small spaces,
we wont get up from our bases
and walk to where there's grass and water.

So we sit around on Sundays
grilling frozen fish fingers
watching Planet Earth on repeat.

Whole continents bloom our screen mould green,
we are elephant hunters,
a herd of fifty big cats
watching lightening creak
like teeth on a wine glass.

Monkey ears back lit by a lozenge sun
glow tomato red,
birds of paradise mimic a jaw clunk,
sea burs stick in our teeth like sesame seeds.

We wake from Sunday sofa sleep to
a vine snap seatbelt plug clack,
to watch tamarind monkeys dangle their wrists
like casters off the branch of a eucalyptus tree.

Later singular in sleep I dream of seed pods that hang
their heads like smashed street lamps,
fern slat blinds that shade in and out the city sky-scape
telling us that we are such technology.