Flies cauterise as they eat dabbing the parts
Making a warped map of our bird
Scab hillocks and the hard brume of wheals,
Ochre bars and divots of gristle.
I shovel it off my lawn with a hoe,
I trowel a hole of centipedes and sand
Savages that now stray without thoughts
Through all the upstart galleries of that flier
Whose memory lies in feathers crinkling
Over the whole endeavour of our sun-dried lawn.
Dead Bird
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