The mystery is a goat

It begins with a kick,
Like the pierced belly
Trailing along the whiny music
Of the misunderstood first letter.
It was beneath the power of the slow beast--
(which boasted one kind of sanctity
that moaned infinite mornings
and milked marvels)
a human race
not unlike the thing that hung
and bleated universal depth
within the longitude of ahhh ahhhh's.

I wasn’t angry as it gurgled blue.
Batting at bee bee bees.
Or, maybe, I was
When I heard the cackle of the ee ee ee;
It bit after the revving of tongued absence.

And it was subtle
As it rose into the blow
Tortured like the last beyond,
Which wasn’t tortured,
When it smiled final—?

Premature rupture of the tap tap tap,
Begs us to return once more for the ominous breadth
of the suspended

Goat, grinning a dare
With immeasurable fortitude:
How long would it take for the hibiscus--
Even the hibiscus, to grow naked.

Exhibit A

Inside,
the clock, useless,
shows no mercy
to the watcher
behind layers of
glass walls
and open screens.

Outside, a sign:
"Photograph: Freedom"