Robert Ostrom
The Youngest Butcher in Illinois

Heretofore he watches the last
of the hour ooze into thirsty
sleep. Wait, head. Stayawhile. Doll
blood on his hands. Under streets
the city can almost hear a passing over,
children in the leaves. And the leaves
they leave through his mouth. Inside
the body, foreign bodies: the season
steals about his brain, his play
station. The house-staff are panic-
stricken. What waits in the wings
is eerie, his histrionics taste like
apples. Hello trial. Hello betrothed.