I'm looking through the shop window
at the filled rows, glass boxes and walls.
Did I mention the smell? Was there one?
Yes, it was musk, warmth, dust, alcohol
infusing this high street zoo of frozen frames.
Trim and pimped on quiet pedestals-
from open field, wood, stream to shelved
herd, flock, shoal of distant cousins.

I'm staring at the cow head, its pert ears
pointless satellites, its nose a dried oyster
glued back on at slightly an off angle,
and its eyes, in their wide blackness
reflecting each blade, fence, muddied machine,
and that final hollowing out by prod, then pistol.