The beasts of the forests are now yours,
god of street signs and phone numbers,
owner of the cattle on a thousand hills.
With your constant counting of hairs,
of sheep, of falling sparrows
I should have taught my children
to be shorn of name, wings tucked and hidden,
keeping to goat paths and clear of all coops.
But they fly, in broad daylight
before your reckoning apertures
and so, binding an emptied box
to my left arm, ashes before my eyes,
I sharpen my teeth.