From the roadside we spot
the Jersey’s hide, camouflaged
in wheat, tufts of guts and fur
in milkweed. Up close, eyes dusted,
ribs minced from the maw,
with chrome clipboards we poke
and draw the remains. Test
intestines for conductivity. Urine
for toxicity. It’s the intern who sees the cataract
of sheep over the cliff, impaling themselves
on a throng of patient bucks, the horde
of flying saucers cyclopsing the horizon. Any dolt
would make a break for it, but the expedient decline
of the intern’s mind is fascinating. Our gaze
unscathed by the alien death rays. The scene is not
unlike the movies: the darkening sky cauterizing
our vision, spectral wrenchings of the soul, one
discernable voice crying out about babes
and wolves, a plague taking out hundreds
of thousands, a flagrant flag, tattered dollar bills
showering down.
