in undergrounds

I'm witching in, thin
as a claw, coning
furled wings, in-bred
switch swinging
like a bitch in green
grass digging holes
as robots mend
their irons, numbers
grid-rigged, pegged
to blowsy under-torn
documents half-fed
to swans with necks
of lead, fake swans
but happy ones, their
red feet marshed
in mud-tar as real
flies buzz blue
with laziness