September 26, 2019

We’ve paid too little. The winds have died down
as we had begged for;            our sore knee is be-
having nicely; it will not throb.              Atone-
ment, seemingly endless, has passed.       Are we

being lambed, through winter, for an irre-
levant price?          One bleat, over a hundred;

one sheep, for ninety-nine. What of kindred
creatures, whose worries we promised to watch?
Each beat is everyone’s heart.    We’re led
to the gate, untouched;            his blood on the latch.