259

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A queue
curls into
the giant
hog lot.
Air here
involves
all senses.
The retch
of farrow
laid over
constant
pig burble.
The scent,
at once new
and an end,
fogs off
the clods
of ordure
and suffuses
the unfurled
cloudiness
of so many
steaming
things. Huff
of nostrils
atomizing,
feces heat,
blood heat,
the killing
floor hosed.
If the roof
tore off
and rose,
the piggery
would vapor
like coffee
from a mug,
like geese
spooked up,
like ghosts
set free.