Lullaby

Let the holy man shear the sheep.
Trust the blade. It conjures sleep,

and drugs the ewe upon her knees,
whets the rite of intimacy.

She lets him cut away her robe.
In each bronze eye revolves a globe.

The shutter flash collides with light.
The farm is trussed in mist tonight.

This poem appears in the February 12, 2020 issue.

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