Goats

Goats

are eating my impatiens, 

     my iris,

my comfrey, sinking hooves 

into my thighs,

crawling through my hair. 

Goats with one eye on my

corn, the other eye 

staring at the sun

are swinging on my hammocks, 

     stitching up

my jeans. Goats in my buddy's 

     etchings have

two eyes on the same sides 

     of their faces,

climb trees tangled in yarn.

They ain't done till they've 

          gnawed 

     my town apart

and done the can-can 

with the roadhouse gang.