The Market

the gusts, the pasture quakes 
bovines yelling in the wheatgrass  
the stink of flesh, stink of bile
irises crushed, crackle of tiny bone 
colourful pulp 
flows down the grate drain

the human shapes 
in pockets of dark 
in dust silhouette

clouds hang over the Occident
and a pangolin is roasted

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sonnychasm

Literature, art, science, travel. Writing fiction, non-fiction, poetry. Always wrestling with language.

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