Poetry

"Cutouts"

We cut them out,

hide them

growling, drooling,

asymmetrical faces, loped

bodies bent with gravity

we refuse.

Like so many turds

and dust balls

rolled from mysterious hideouts,

biodegradable they resist

our efforts to sweep

them to amnesia,

our mutated mirrors.

And so

in pleasant weather, warm

and shade, monarchs and goldenrods,

these discomfittings come out,

rolling, twisted, moaning,

some screaming

hands clasped with wondering eyes,

driven by bullhorned shepherds'

to keep them from our sidelong shame.

Too bad for us

to have to look

to see these leavings.