Enclosures are sectioned off by imagined boundaries
amongst the living green; however,
we are too afraid to cross
because we fear the small sheepdog,
whose fur wallows over her button eyes,
will threaten to gash her teeth
through our speckled black feathery fur coat.

This is only how they appear,
for they have the duty to keep us here
in the presence of her tall thin shepherd man,
who makes profit off of our wool,
as he keeps us in his realm of safety
away from the forest’s furtive wolves
(or so he says).

It is just to keep us inside of his brothel
selling our services freely for a long life of…
bareness
from our wiry fleece.