Butchery
They do it right here in the front yard in Wellsville,
The Dexter in her green tarp shroud, the other carcass
Already “beef-treed” and headless. A boy and girl bike past
And barely seem to see it dripping out onto its own heavy hide
The man yanks aside, looking, unbelievably, like no one
So much as a matador swinging his flannel muleta wide.
