The Buzzards Circling Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Careworn, glossy as worms in the corpse:
Pale dogs smiling over the paler horse, the moon on the
Rising and crowning the hackles,
The savage tenements mortared in unrest-
Death savants, making his dutiful rounds through the
Hoary transoms like thick and oily chambers
Of a loud mouthed weapon:
Unglued, lobsters crying like little girls with paper cuts
In their boiling baths:
Werewolves who hit the sauce and then the virginal necks,
Like bonfires over teepees, and silver axes into
Aspens,
Until all the wishes are spent, and you see your girl making love
Or eyes with him:
And anyways, at least it was fun while it lasted:
And the hyenas set around the corpse and laughed,
The buzzards circling in strange transgressions, echoing.