after Carl Phillips

The best part,
how we make to
part the beast
from its self.

Take the bull
(whose head it’s got.
Now, conjure you—
the offal, bovine throat,
a veiny tract meant
for an alfalfa pasture,
clover, sundry grasses
soon to cud; or

a garden got at: trampled
angel’s breath, marigold,
daisy, rose, chomped down,
also, though, grown, only,
it seems, to prune to mean
a human being
what humans are—

and there: a tendril
coils from your skull,
then petals split
the temple, come
to bloom. See, how
now the bull face,
stricken, blinks),
finding a way,
reeling, through new
bewildering appetites.