By the Nose
Not something that he's seeing everyday:
rather ripping teeth through some bale of hay,
inexpensive chow; does the job, though,
and with stretched upper lip, he bares teeth,
waiting by white picket fences with belief,
to be led, by the nose, where he can't stray.
Today, Red Sea crowds are parting ways
like mud cut keen by a screwing plough;
he trots behind, upbeat, dropping last litters,
in rough, short white coat, flecked with grit,
sturdy enough, but soon it will no longer fit,
be skinned off his back and tossed aside,
as a crimson wrapping that stored the heart.
Indifferent people, who split then form,
foam like rivers that froth among boulders,
now clamp his rump, now seize his shoulder,
slitting bladed X about the throat, he streams,
hooves beat tattoos in concrete screams
and falls slack upon strewn crimson bales.
Standing upright, men who tell such fables,
will ask you to lend them an ear, toss red rose,
and let them lead you willingly by the nose.
No comments:
Post a Comment