Content farms

Search optimisation is the bronzewing’s nemesis

or indifference if it’s your attention it wants,

though it’s not; link farming from Russian capitalists

to offset the tender feelings aroused by recently

planted olive tree saplings wilting with the frost,

or the discovery of a thriving new Jam tree sapling –

disturbed ground liberating – and musing over

the beautiful-simple design of the semi-circle arc

of the faucet on the eastern roofcatch rainwater

tank. But content gets plucked out of your work

and days, as fetid smoke falls down to your semi-

breved locality on the long, drawn-out hillside:

a burning-off – wild oats poisoned up on the demi-

peak, a neighbours’ cocktail you already wear

on your clothes. Retreating indoors, screen-saved.

Inverse proportions create a market where there

is no market existing – sucking the well dry

or spoiling it so no others can drink safely,

deeply. And on the flipside is the desire

for strangers from otherworlds to be settled only

where settling is under a vice-like grip. These pryings

and leverings, these attempts – as the burners

of the fouled organics perceive it – to get under

their skin, change its colour as though they’re

changing the texture of the crust. On the surface

a hovering kite twists its microscopic vision –

bronzewing, watch out!

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