Tuesday, June 8, 2010


Geese bend their necks, caned
down, foraging shoots' egress from slumber.
Young experience; a tell, green, in color and age.
Eating like a finicky child, shoving
salad to the side, off plated possibilities,
they'd rather dessert first; no eyes looking
at things sweeter, plumper; swallowed whole.
Worms, worshiping the earth
from their depthed dirt of recess
called, in fear of The Voice, flooding,
pulling towards death, a sacrificial rising
to greedy gullets, eating well...

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