Some Dead Chickens, Hancock, NY
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.