The butcher’s shop was in the hospital
where, headed to my MRI,
I wondered why that white, psychic tunnel
made earplugs and mantras
helpful, seals within seals
secure, when I turned
into a corner where skinned calves stood, blinking.
Others were in process, ripping.
I figure you’re the MRI machine:
reading me positive.
The blinking eyeball: what must remain,
and my being too
poor to adopt a calf, forced to choose
a cheerful, intact chicken surely is
worst-case for shops in
dream hospital hallways.
to rescue the skinned, blinking animal,
I figure means answers
space station far and stripped
of gravity’s hairy husk.