Is it a mystery ungulate illness
or exploding chemicals from Russian test rockets?
I look for you in the space
between the window screen and eternity.
So many particles I cannot name them
yet they add up to cold fusion. Your
bizarre bulging eyes roam the
Kazakhstan tundra. I am no
wolf. Is it something in the
water? No human rides your antelope back –
maybe you long to feel weight,
to feel a torso crush you in the morning because
you want to feel cherished. We have all tired
from frequenting the same
beauty bars. Your spongy
proboscis filtering out cold air and
dust, looking for a new Carpathian
Mountain to climb, like any Monday coffee.
Your apathetic horns
spiral out of control. There
is no need to butcher you anymore
for eastern fertility rituals, pocket the horns,
leave the carcass to rot. The pathogens have seen
to that. Man exploded in population
while you imploded, even with
two thirds of calf births resulting in twins.
You do not know how to
communicate: 100% fatality.