I do not enjoy hauling the soaked corpse of a cat from a well.
I derive no pleasure from the play of autumn sunlight
on its slick greenblack fur, from comparisons to fishbellies,
a raven's wing. If it gives off a scent of peat and marjoram,
that is for others to appreciate. I cannot rejoice
in the flattening grass as I set the body down,
nor applaud the first bluebottle to settle in the shallow
of its ear, wing membranes sparking magenta, goldburst.
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