TASKS OF THE WORLD

How devout the cows

snuffling the ground with their white spots

while the black ones raise toward the sky

a bovine gaze above the house

whose pasture long ago withered

in the hearts of men.

Only the switch still fits their hand.

Tasks of the world. To count the minutes, pound by pound.

Makers of meat, keepers of account books,

at the sacrificial altar

what will you tell the Lord

he doesn’t know or hasn’t been?

At night’s end they drink sacred wine

in a somber suit, faces hidden

by the moon. Out there the cows exchange their moos:

mantras of love beneath the stars.

Lord, how much compassion will it take for you

to be godfather at the Sunday barbecue?