Domestic Animals

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest . . .

Make no mistake—             even the priest is

tethered to a pole and can            travel only as far

as his leash will           let him.  The poem

can travel             only as far as the finger traversing

its field.  I can go only as far as         age    despite

ceremony.             Face it                bold lover

we’re piping ditties of no tone—  making

cruel disputes with enigmas over steak bones

our          intertwining monologues rising into an

ether of their own disintegration.              The only

option we’ve got is           to enter the coliseum   the

studio lot           the sacrificial clearing with a breezy

manner—to face the solemn          obtuse    intoxicated

or whatever gods      blissfully disarming

in our ignorance        of how it ends.