The hides hang in the odd
Two-dimensional shapes of the animal they once were.
Sow, in a rucksack, unfolded, now in the shape of a dull
Ache or a continent, flattened like a blotch of hollyhocks
On a fifteenth-century shield. Clove-
Pink, be kind: a mercy is wrapped in a scarf made of autopsy
And hoodwinking. A bull
In the shape of his meadow, clovering, incarnate, coming home.
You will not be there, will you now?
A satchel of black cherries
Over-ripening in a skirmish of anatomies, puckering
Like the soft spikes of the currycomb. Then groveling,
Grooming the animal, even sleeker for the ride.