A wintering;
                          and everything we know
is hearsay: ravens

picking at a blood-knot in the snow, the village
lost, two miles away, the roads

       All summer,
there were others in the house

disguised as children, charmless, ravening,
but clothed, as children are,

in swansdown, proofed
like saints against the day

of judgment, when the livestock in the barn
grow weary of themselves, their textbook forms

reduced to hoof and bone, their dreams of light
discarded for the banquetry of slops

on which we feed,
though no one here is lean.

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