Black and white headed goose sliding slowly
Across the pond is there mourning in your
Call? Why do you linger so long in the
Stagnant waters near the abandoned farm?
Where is your flock? Did they venture too close
To the marshy end where the old dock stands
Mostly sunken and half hidden in the
Muck and swamp grass? Did you fix your stare through
The gaps of the warped slats to the shadows
Under the dock at the dripping pile
Of bones? You were the one, weren’t you? The
One to hear the slosh and suck of his steps.
Did you see the fates in his dead black eyes,
Or just the dripping maw of old Raw Head?