I think nothing so honest
exists as the huge buzzard,
ready, unashamed, to eat
that which rots, to eat bowels,
to eat the soft grape of dead eye.
Luxuriously, they glide,
one by one, enormous winged
black birds, to perch on the corpse,
or to dance, wings outstretched,
around it on the dead grass.
We are trussed buzzards, bound tight,
just a hop from some big corpse,
rotted now, nearly perfect,
tender, fragrant. If we could
just slip our bindings to feast.