Out of the trees hanging by its forearms
the orangutang weeps at the prospect of
the sweetest fruit rooting in his agile palms
he sings from branches several octaves too
high for the swooning crowd, the startled
men in bowler hats measuring, always measuring
the ladies in studded shoes with diamante gleaming smiles
never dance for fear of losing lottery precision
That whispering of strangers you hear in the dark
the park by that lake where boats drift for lovers
as they run fingers making streams in their wake
feeding the animals comes naturally to some
weeping at danger brings the evening bells down
from the tower and Quasimodo himself cuts the bonds that
held history together
Dreams about angels always end with falling
the swinging orange hair of his arms
describes the future
the civilisation thinks itself smart
when it is just old Mother nature at work
carving out gentle recipes on the back of
the royal playing cards
the tricks and the trumps
elucidate the precision of power