Porcupine.

Where the sounds of a porcupine,
ribbit tides in my spin.
The spike clock drive big stock,
and the workhorse soon wrinkles.
The sweat that collects in the
concrete drain will be pressed
by new eras which take heavy slumber
a top one another.
The sweat will be harvest.
Will be oil for a new eon
when lamp light it the least
of man's worries.
Where the sight of a porcupine
spike belt makes you stand up
straight and produce
a little quicker.

Rowboat.

The brawling and the gloom. The distant wedge of cabbage holding the door open against the breeze, debris, twisted sun air. I assume that is cabbage. Can't pull this rowboat all by my lonesome but I must. Three fish slap at that transom upon each bump of rock and sand. I thought this breeze was a joke when out on the surf. Catching sustenance and weathering spray. This breeze, will pass, I had assumed. Luckily the capsizing occurred close to shore, and my catch was tied so tight and nifty, supper was not lost. Can't pull this rowboat all by my lonesome, but I did. Dropped lightly on the grass to the side of the cottage, and confirmed with closer proximity that the lady indeed used a head of cabbage as a door jamb. In the kitchen, the lady was entertaining guests, her aunties. Nagging her on bringing about nieces and nephews into the windy world. The lady nodded at me and said I could only get it poking with a sucking for starters and until she got around to it could she do bend to the sucking and get it poking. That shut up her aunties. Slapped three fish on the table and retrieved the cabbage and let the door slam. I'm hungry, I announced, let's get the stove burning and get on from this dilly dallying. Her aunties get nervous when I'm demanding and don't do much talking. The shutters slap and the stove simmers smoke from a spill from the night before, but the sun is still present and the wind is still vociferous.