This thing

There's this thing:
monumentally grown
with rock deep roots, finely browed,
solid, as it says.

And then there's another thing:
bent over, wind blown,
whistling. Sometimes no, often, maybe,
tremendously wriggly.

Then there's a third thing:
whippet hurt, each premise,
lacked, each longing
promised, elsewhere.

There's this last thing:
splashed by the boat,
it asks for land. You give it.
The thing huddles, firebound.

There's a thing in my
pocket. I take it out and tease
its hirsute vanity. It bites,
a scrap of skin and fur.

This is my favourite thing.