We eat nothing now the source
is burning. The flanks of English
cows are black and curved as though

to spread desire. Newspapers show
them dead on backs, limb-stiff, bellies
tight with late-year calves, the skulls

like chalk explosions, cast against sky,
a black scrim behind which farmers
soak gas. Once the curtain lifted;

on the smoky low stage, you saw
women divide themselves as though
cut down by blades. Between the lighted,

shearing legs: the entrance wound,
a burst of red. How is there any
want left in the world? Your hand's

on my breast, desirous, becoming
a different animal.