Witches & Warlocks in the Wild

     We see it, though we swear
Our binoculars are liars. Due south
     Of Wolf Pen Branch,
There is a nasty stretch of scrub undergrowth,
And hatched in the itchy clutches of it

A classic Roman orgy in the briars.

Our assistant, Miss Carter, snaps
Covert photographs of them with a
    High powered lens.
Uploaded to a surveillance satellite
The shameless size of them
                Coupling
Without any respectable reference to each other

Winks awake on monitors
Back at the home lab.

Out in their horny habitat, rude and fresh.
Kneading each other until they're unrecognizable
Or outgrown golems of the alphabet.

Snagged and humping and spun embraced by thorns.

On and on without any food or water.

Never aging
against the current of growing older.

They look like flies shocked to life on a web.
Anderson has a knack for
Trading in facts for metaphor,
                But
Seeing this, I would agree with him.
So lost in the hum

Of pleasure effort
    They're free from the sting of
Nerve endings shredded and exposed
To wilderness air. Being a man of

Science, I should say, it’s a species of
Concentration to be envied.

Muddy and bloody
And drugged by heavenly weather,

Outside thought drinking thought,

Untouched by money or gender.

Still, I wonder: what kind of
      Flesh
Do they subsist on?

To taste it or anything, I think
I would have to become one of them.