Some Dead Chickens, Hancock, NY

June 29, 2020

Last Sunday night chill
killed the chickens in their coup,
all frozen beak, flat eye—

feathers off-angle, broken bone,
skewered. We took them
out onto the gray potato

earth, cruel rocks and all—
cold on their slack backs,
already skeletal, hateful—

and primal—gnashing
grossness in their clay bodies—
come from some creator,

maybe, but minds dumb—
without a lord, no last
benediction, or affairs unattended.

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