And what quintessence of dust
are you my beautiful buck,
ballerina of the bushveld,
tomorrow’s breakfast?
A rhetorical question.
What remains?
Not even the bones of you
when the scavengers are done
culled and absorbed as you might be
into the innards of one more powerful.
At daybreak we eat soft-boiled eggs
as Jacob says,
‘She survived the night.
Random scrolling.’