The dead straw in those trees, the
dead leaves in those trees
have turned to birds, they have turned
to crows, they are watching a deer
or a piece of tire, my foot
is on the deer's black head,
my face is in the clouds,
I kick the tire over
to see the guts. I want
the whole thing for myself.
They want the eyes, they want
the stinking shoulder, they wait
for me to leave, I kick
the legs, I drag them across
the highway, all those beaks
are snapping, all those tails
are waving in the wind,
their bellies are moaning and howling,
their souls are cooing and cawing.

-Gerald Stern


shaylah said…
i love this. this theme of rot has been circulating in my head and i'm going to write a collection of poems revolving there.
Molly said…
Wandered over from one of those frantic-blogs, where we refresh, refresh to see if anyone has heard anything.

Which schools have you applied to?

Best of luck!

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