The Turkey's Complaint

The vague patrolling recollection sits like a fat white swan on her nest, cuddling the unborn nakedness, fragile, soundless! He caresses her wings, she beats them frantically as his cold old lips meshes and folds. Dragging, he goes, she crackles to the red-stained woods, painted lovingly with millions that entered before. His touch blackens and grips She feeds on youths she hid in her thoughts, Their time winding down, seconds after seconds. And with the rage of Moses’s staff, the loud shed quivers and her incantation feathered gown sweeps in the red wind. Done, revelation! The decapitated fowl runs in the eye of a God. The red man ascends like Lazarus coming, coming for the next victim of his plague. Inside my coldness, I feel warmness, I feel restfulness, I am papery and ready for his touch of death. Thanks giving to clouds.