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MOTH
TARTARE
The
moth does not like this.
He has ruptured a wing
and
is spluttering in the grass.
He’s
been whacked. A surprise.
What is this? Ee-agh,
God!
A
blackbird has swiped and acquired him.
Now
he sees what is up: his belly, tweaked
under a house-high earth-remover’s
twitchy
alert beak, left eye.
He
gets that tool in his brain; he has ceased
not to like it. His
abdomen
continues
to twist like a club.
The
moth’s wings flip-flop as the ton of beak
mashes his thorax. His
wings blink
like
eyelids on the garden path.
Where
will the Black Arrows come from? The
bird
shoulders her head, eye up,
feeling
the rumbles of moth tartare.
Alan
Marshfield
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