oink & moo

It’s already yesterday: behold
chalked snouts of pigs and cows on the pavement
drawn by wrinkled infants a century ago.
Farmers aren’t afraid to die. They hear your blood singing
and say: here you go. And say: shut up.
Ghosts neither whisper nor bulge their eyes, but they try to yodel;
some are looking for a kitchen on a cloud,
the others for a cloud in your kitchen.
No one is riding a gilded bicycle along the empty street
like a prophet wearing a coat of living mice,
boasting about a collection of torn rosaries
wrenched from the hands of the holy, no one.

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