Horn Is Bull Human
J
James McLain
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Alive green the swamp moves and frothy.
It all works out in the neck of me.
White the river soars then floods out.
But the yellow tractor drives me fenced back away.
Back I am the child I am looking.
Moss glistens, leaf is still moving.
All of dry old me is left put out by you.
Crumpled grass, at the mound,
where we feed.
And a slick what is salt, made is me.
Like a huge black and white calf halved coming out
it looks at me, paid what the price?
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