"Weasel"
Later, something else: sense
of secrets, choice, couplings, bias,
a broken consensus; sudden
nodes and surging, flares
over a field of crevasses.
Yearning incomplete tender
excited implicated in
the murder of communal majesty
reckless desperate pronged--he feel-
eeleels.
Blackout.
And reappears: triumph
of skepticism in the guise of sex
--or the other way around--
a weasel in wolfskin, appetite
probing forward, anguish biting back;
acrid awl-toothed ferrets, first
profaning mammal, his notions run
among the old identities,
grand immobile eggs of great saurians,
stave them in with a paw,
dabble sharp noses in the golden yolk
after the hidden copula, the payoff,
tit-for-tat, gobbet of muck on the palm.
What the hell is it all for?
run fast
consume and void
shake a paw at the shit.
Sudden turning, quick shying
of his snout in revulsion.
Despair composed this snob?
Airs blown
from distant bodies.
Digging down, flings dirt backward.
For great cravings small gravings.
And a muddy mouthful.
Screw my fellow man,
my putz is my brother!
Shame shunts him off.
Cross to the other side of the street.
Cover your tracks, move on.
Bestrides the ruined positions.
To live this caricature?
To live it.
Prong stiff into the March wind.
~Irving Feldman