I picked up a squirrel lying in the road.
I pitied him, thought him a poor fellow
And deserving of enough dignity
To be spared being crushed by tyres in the sun.
I thought about other daily slaughters:
How many snails had been crushed beneath the
Pounding genocide of my careless steps
On cold, starless, rainy nights. How many
Bombs have fallen? I once killed a lamb with
Hands that petted him before his sacrifice.
They say Jesus praised a rotting carcass
For its white teeth; others thought it ugly.
My poor fellow’s eye dangled on his cheek
But his silver fur was soft and lovely.