The moon is high, blue-blood trailing
like a gunshot wound; my heart is not
for sale, nor beauty... no matter where
we find it. A great, black crow
a witness to the mystery of silence
clings to twisted branches, the one
dark hole in moon's smooth complexion.
Look out any window. Who said nature
is forgiving, always gorgeous? A fox
slinks by, a church mouse quivers in his jaw.
His irridescent eyes reflect the moon;
red liquid stained his flame-orange fur.
Don't be disappointed by the violence,
the desperate sparrow jabbing for a worm,
a pack of wolves ripping through the deer
whose calf was nearly born, the unsympathetic
meteors rushing towards collision.