Field Music

Wringing out the wind chimes, the night leaves
a hole for a spotlight, and my hands callous
over the goats’ singing. Somebody killed
my cat, not in the way Dad made the sheep

click. You know, I’ve got half a mind to halve
you, hot as a Salamander, foul as a skidsteer.
I ain’t chicken. I saw Cat Ballou, the horse
that fell through the ceiling. She was unbridled.
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