From “The Low Passions”
Finding Scott
Seven Camels touching on the bedstand
in a measured row, like a pan flute
with flush pipes that, when blown,
all hit one note. An eighth, unlit,
all hit one note. An eighth, unlit,
fits loosely in his curled fingers.
A few empty Coors rim the bathroom sink,
A few empty Coors rim the bathroom sink,
pull tabs removed. There’s no need
to check for a pulse, hold a hand mirror
to check for a pulse, hold a hand mirror
for breath. I’ve worked with carcasses
the size of men. Gagged at the odor of a doe
the size of men. Gagged at the odor of a doe
letting go, smoked flies off piles of organs,
heard the wet rip of skin teased free
heard the wet rip of skin teased free
in oval sheets. I know the creature
is no longer there. No longer anywhere.
is no longer there. No longer anywhere.
