Could have been lamb With the rank smell Of three days out And lawnmowers, reluctantly choked Cut to gnurled, embryonic shapes The diagram, of cross-sectioned bone With that alien perforation The enamel still mostly white Mrs Marsh’s varicose poison blue Bled out just a little On the White Christmas rind of fat A bright pink stamp Illegible, but with the pellucid Implication, of a child well behaved A divided smile Those big trustful eyes Still quietly bleating
