I ate half a bird yesterday
and it (the eating, not the bird)
led me to contemplate,
if poems are gentle, compassionate?
Let me explain, I stake
no claim in kindness banks;
but death is not always,
a matter of unkindness
And we are trapped in
bodies flawed. The goat it
bleats, the cows fidget
And I will never figure out a widget.
Are we vulnerable to precision?
The killing machine is the same for me
and you and all the animals
(do you think they think they're free?)
I've toed the line of agency to
practice the art of the possible.
Still the world has failed to well show me
how bacon can be the smell of evil.
