So this is what happens:
raw flesh in the new-mown field,
brown breast feathers scattered,
one twisted red foot aside in the stubble,
two ripped wings spread wide
beside the shattered eggs,
vultures waiting for me to go.
This is what I thought you’d give me:
the simple softness of your nest,
some easy safety.
Hide us under the shadow of your wings:
so often I’ve prayed
without thinking what happens,
the price you pay.
So blithely I’d recited that,
and gone my way.