JOHN
JAMES AUDUBON EXPERIMENTS
The vultures didn't
hear the sound
of the painting
hitting the morning
field. A sliced
open hog lay covered
close by, days
old, heavy fist
waiting for wet
mouths, but no bites.
Buzzards rang
above, skinny eclipses
over the green.
Flight following
a black-eyed gape.
Finally, seeing
the oil-painted
death—sprawled
gut, mouth dry
and a lolling tongue—
they came down.
Such attention to detail,
this fake lamb
in the grass—blood pool
brushstrokes and
splayed skin.
The sound of five
thin vultures
like hammers hooking
again and again
the tight canvas
with no return
and the man standing,
scribbling it,
dragging them
down from sky.
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