From the Fishouse

Like Saint-Exupéry before me,
I draw a crate with a sheep inside,

knowing my sheep is sure to disappoint
should he see the light of day,
sure to be a sickly, mongrel sort of pet.

I keep him locked away, sneak in
at night while he sleeps, feel in
the dark for his curls, rub my palm
along the warm heave of his belly.

But what if he wakes, stares
at me with filmy eyes filled
with accusation?

One day, one sharp hoof will split the pine.