Little cow of god, the wattage of your red
reverberates the earth, and spots of onyx nestle
on its lacquer like fixed stars. Bravissima! You are red’s
least loud-mouthed ambassador, paradise’s miniscule half-apple

mobilized by a half-dozen legs, and under
the split-open dome of you: gold-leaf wings, folded over
esoterically, like dress patterns, whose thinness whispers to the near-
devotional care called for to pin them out properly.

Meanwhile, your antennae, animate, demonstrate
sensitivity with a nonchalance that shames the bureaucrat.
Thanks for that! You serve purpose in the garden, but at the moment
what matters is I see you…

Little cow of god, who had been sleeping on a pom-pom
I sewed by hand onto a store-bought curtain till I jostled you
awake, you who flew to my laptop’s light and landed on the staves of
my worksurface, tell me — am I dying?

Little cow, blood-drop omen, stopped in front of me like a whole
note in a chorus that celebrates the invisible
labor of useless thought — you who had grown tired, I have grown
old, but is it over, our irrelevant haven, this thimble’s worth of song?