on roadkill

you ask about the lost angels,
something about the way a bird falls when broken.
you ask if there's a heaven for the hounds.

you've seen them, you say. the mouths. how they lick
the bones clean, lips smacking though they may be.
and of course there’s no need for leftovers; yesterday the boys
came and stripped bare what they wanted.

but it’s not always a feast, you say. sometimes they come
in the night and there’s not enough food. sometimes the flock
devours itself from the inside out.