1.
The crutch of a tree
propped up the owl, thimbled
and egg-eyed in a
sky diced with stars. Its
Head belled circular. Its neck
feathered orbitals. A long way
off a gutted farmhouse spat
a gritty man, his shoulder
Parrotted with a blunt-toothed barrell.
Now,
he
slinks and knees through laconic
grass and his boots fracture
the moons in puddles.
Rapture-sudden,
the
tree-poled staccato of the
dashing fox happens to
a shot, ringing bloodlessly between
clashings of oak. A plankton of dusts
chucks up from the ground. Lidded, the
Owl makes flight under the stems of
novas and rips through
the dark to perch loftily
on a dripping horizon. Darker
still.
2.
In the squat of the
farmhouse, an intestine of stinks,
the farm-man creaks with
his wife, porked and vapoured.
The window scopes the eyes
of the piercing owl- a
haunt on their porch- and
cylindered shafts of light
javelin the carpet
like telescopes. A fireplace
Sleeps and wracks up a
tongue as, outside, the splayings
of Fox-meat bracken in
funghi. The gutter is brittled in
bone. Tomorrow the people will
Crowd in their walks and
marvel at
such scarlet a death.
The owl’s ribcage will contort
round his heart just as the
farm-man will sling a glance
at the webbing dew that criss-
crosses forests and sculleries
plate clouds.
His hands will moisten.
3.
In the East, where
seedless fields
digest the brains
of lead-picked boys, the
owling moon crooks a stare.
Pelts pickle in vixen-red
blood.
Skins tank up.
We shot a beast in trappings
Of bark and
a boy in the emptiness
of afternoon
alike.
Their committals hold themselves
in the bellies of
suns and
mirrors
And are hymned in
received pronunciation.
The boneless limp of
deadened
Fox is scattered in the
marbles of their skulls,
in the triggers of their
bodies,
in the drift
of their seas.
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