It is morbid of me
I suppose, to want to pick up
the dead animals under the glass.
The wing-spread belly-up sharp shinned hawk,
the rat-nosed puppy-eared fisher. Blank cotton eyes.
The Northern Garnet, beak bleached wooden
white. Heavy, helpless as a limp chicken.
The terrible moose antler alone
repels me. Separate and pleading
as an open hand.
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