From Some Tree this Hidden Calf (trying to escape Poe’s Raven)

 

Waits and bleats

and shadows brown

dappled in darkness

I hear it call

 

a cry, but a cry

without hope

in the tradition

of a beast, whose ancestors

know only slaughter.

 

There is surely a rope

or a pen to hold

until death is called

for veal and leather

these are your name

 

like a nightingale

I do not hear your song

of ultimate sadness

of the empty beauty

of pointless death.

 

Stay hidden

and frightened

and hunger I sure

for the mother’s milk

and kindness licks

 

in the dappled

blackness

that is the lot

of all your kind.

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