Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Baked Owl Shit


One morning I came down to find the family dog
Dead on the rug, two half moons of dried fluid
At both her ends. Grandfather held a plastic bag
While I picked her up and dropped her in.

Frustrated with the slow progress, my brother
Took over digging the hole in the frozen ground.
I stood on, hands in my pockets, I was armless
As the oak tree, also a stump near the horses.

Now in the heat of summer I spot a crayon my
Daughter has dropped, it has also given up its
Form, oozing out its green essence onto asphalt.

If you remove the center, the stains will still
Orbit themselves passing around the absent
Life invisible inside our eventual melting.

No comments: