Shearing

He starts with the belly,
locking his knees around the black throat.
The sheep nibbles the back of his trousers.
The wool comes away quivering like foam.
The bare skin’s scored like fresh plaster,
the wool that’s been close to it
is bright beneath the dirty fleece.
He whittles it away from each black leg,
the sheep slippery suddenly,
then standing, the shearer riding backwards
on its back, slapping its backside
so it skitters nude down the tin ramp.
He gathers the fleece like a lover
picking up his clothes from a married woman’s floor.