Shirt of Nettles
My shirt of nettles is crushed to fill an oven roll. Come, I don't want to read, the world is out there where animals don't talk. The animals don't change now into men, but watch our indoor cages, rapturously.
My shirt of nettles is crushed to fill an oven roll. Come, I don't want to read, the world is out there where animals don't talk. The animals don't change now into men, but watch our indoor cages, rapturously.
The speaker seems restless and ready to leave the page behind. The opening image is odd and domestic: a shirt of nettles, something prickly and uncomfortable, crushed up to fill an oven roll. It reads like a strange act of turning pain or irritation into food.
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