A gullet or a guillotine?
Was I nestled, lulled, in a crooning throat
or snared by the blades of a beak?
Perched near my ear
a caw, a cry,
a croak which splutters
coarse and gravel-dry:
‘Perhaps it was both, my dear.’
In epidermal dreams I still condone
the rummage; the ravage;
the scimitar-split of my trunk so wide,–
Wide as an avian eye.
It pecks past my bones like an off-white xylophone,
plucking my entrails like strings.