Dressing an otherwise
Poor bird for dinner
With the town priest,
We use sharp herbs from
The stoop, fresh ones,
The ones that hoarfrost
And that tart-making
Neighbor don’t touch.
Perhaps it’s Lady Day?
I cannot say it matters,
As in death and taxes,
The truth is a shadowy figure.
A wren flew into our
Hearth and stole the flame.
We wait for a sign like a
Dog waits for the neck.
It is the world, after all,
That we have to contend with,
Devil-may-care,
Whistling past the graveyard.
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