Cow Mysticism
The great philosophers of this world eat
green tomatoes and graze among the dormant
orange groves. I'm on philosopher watch.
Day three: no such luck. The fallen oranges
haven't been touched by a tongue in days.
The sandy grass begs for hooves
to trample wisdom into their blades,
to postulate the coming of water,
or the clumsy hand that drops a cigarette
to end it all. I want to be level
with the nostrils of wisdom.
To ask the rotating chew if having four feet
is better than two. If a tail is better
than this sack of hair on my head
or if this talking world means more
than a grazing one. I'm on philosopher watch.
So far not even a bell, not even a rustle.
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