From “The Low Passions”

Finding Scott

Seven Camels touching on the bedstand
in a measured row, like a pan flute

with flush pipes that, when blown,
all hit one note. An eighth, unlit,

fits loosely in his curled fingers.
A few empty Coors rim the bathroom sink,

pull tabs removed. There’s no need
to check for a pulse, hold a hand mirror

for breath. I’ve worked with carcasses
the size of men. Gagged at the odor of a doe

letting go, smoked flies off piles of organs,
heard the wet rip of skin teased free

in oval sheets. I know the creature
is no longer there. No longer anywhere.
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