after the barnyard incident

waiting for the knock on the door seems cozy now,
differing as it does so little from anything else.

there would be glazed staring and pretend indifference
under lights that sway through dumb smoke.

blaming it on exposure to the sun runs counter
and would only fool them for an hour.

four times haltered under some lead hook and hay,
a splinter of light battered through the roof,
the holes irregular in their jagged hymn
to hail and wind and birds.

if lowing were claimed you might beg an early exit:

there is only grating silence.