You have to kill the baby bird with the shovel.The dog with tail wagging at novelty has taken itbeyond its body’s ability to repair.It stutters movement, globular eyes throbbing,the abraded throat in faint peristalsis,the dull blue of veins—
Later, the world whirlsin a wine glass,the music grows heavier,heavier. Striking up a conversationwith the man in the corner.Learning the man in the corner is a soldier.Learning it is always better to strike too hard once.A second strike means shame.Dilution. The clink of ice in wine.You have to raise your glass highand risk the breaking,know kindness in any guise.
It is late autumn.There is no one on the street.Before the blade of the shovel scrapes against gravel,there is another, softer, sound. No hush after. Street noise.A distant siren, a distant cough.