with borrowings from Rimbaud, “Après le Déluge”

in a turbulent dream,
I wake troubled, confused,
a tabby nosing round the sheets…

the market stalls are dressed in meat,
bavetted, boned, ground to links
beady with nut and veg, dusty
with paprika and cheese—the art
of man on all!—while in steamy
windows, rabbits hang by hindfeet
above slimy chicken parts dosed
with BBQ, above trotters and snouts
stacked like gummy Lincoln logs.

Soutine’s been here. His racks. His thews.
Sheep shanks settle corporeal as women.
Mein fleisch quakes on me,
I offer it to you.

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