The crows were black
coming to and to it
and the dog barking was black
and the trees standing
in a row behind it were black-
trunked black-branched
and a black plastic bag
hung torn inside
the black spaces
and the puddles were black
with mud and ice
and the leaves were black
and the lamb
the crows and the dog
wanted so badly,
the lamb with its
small white splintered
hull of a chest
sticking out so
emptily to the wind
you could almost hear
in the bony tines a tune,
the lamb
was the dead
this early spring
the dead centre of everything