Sorcery
Yetner’s white slaughterhouse
—ramp to the sky—
about a mile out of town, as I recall,
and the strung-out guts
linked like cantaloupe seeds.
When Evelyn paused to allow
Yetner’s grandchildren off Bus 12,
a four-pointer rose from the grass
like a myth—stilting on hard pegs—
arcing, aloft.
