It includes the butterfly and the rat, the shit

It includes the butterfly and the rat, the shit

drying to chalk, trees

falling at an angle, taking those moist

and buried rootballs with them

into deadly air. But someone will

tell you the butterfly's the happy ending

of every dirge-singing worm, the rat

a river rat come up from a shimmering depth,

the shit passed purely into scat one can read

for a source, the creature that shadowed it one

longish minute. And trees, of course they

wanted to fall. It was their time or something

equally sonorous. And wind too knows its

mindless little whirlpool's not for nothing, not

nothing—that pitch and rage stopped. How else

does the sparrow's neck break.