Cold To Just Be Close To

Wicker breaking underfoot
they trampled all the baskets,
leaving nothing for themselves
to carry back. Bending wire from
a broken fence they wrote their names
in three dimensions, knocked around
by only wind and displaced swarms.
A goat split open by lightning still moved
its lips like it was trying to drink the air,
and rotated its eye by flicking it repeatedly
with its tongue. Another bell had rung to
let the buzzards know there was fresh blood
in the fields. Making the grass damp like carpet
saturated with spilled wine, cold to just be close to,
like another.

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