I, Catastrophe, from the white tails
inside slab cities, confront
a committee of all my years past,
govern the wild fowl
until her wind
takes my voice
              and away with it
runs

I, Misbegotten, don’t have
              what I don’t know.
Maybe someone sings
from plucked rooster strings
a morning cast in broken bottles —

glass scampers
              to the four corners
in a great man’s study.

Good meat comes
from good animals.

I, Woebegone, look a disbelief
for things buried.
                                             Wind,
accuse loudly an undampened
ground. I hold vast in one hand
to be taken
              to the takeout
and with a good, final, pixilated view
live the rest
as restless as shutters.