The Animals in That Country

have the faces of people:

the ceremonial

cats possessing the streets

the fox runs to the creek

politely to earth, the huntsmen

standing around him, fixed

in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered

with blood and given

an elegant death, trumpets, his name

stamped on him, heraldic brand

because

(when he rolled on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant

conversations in their

forests thickened with legend.

In this country the animals 

           have the faces of 

           animals. 

           Their eyes 

           flash once in car headlights 

           and are gone. 

           Their deaths are not elegant. 

           They have the faces of 

           no-one.