(It is birth each day)
But from the unshuttered
butcher's
I hear the piercing cries
of cow and calf,
hear the low wild sound
the butcher with his swift
and careless cut
(giving
in his way);
here, the cries
float to the ceiling,
fly out the windows
like fledglings,
hopeful,
at night I hear them,
these boundless laments,
these interior sounds,
they carry me
through this pregnant dark,
lull me to sleep--
and in a dream
a visible calf waits
inside its mothers womb.(Morning comes
and from nothing
I make a feast.
Red•
The Butcher•