The sloth swung smiling into the grey hawks nest
Its baby limbs were slack and waving
For the hungry chick and tempered wife
Who would not let the hunter rest .
And both our hearts were torn away
When its twisting body was hurling
Into its helpless end; all our eyes upturning
From our indignation.
I always explain the necessity of each witnessed death.
But why, when they dream of marriage, are we suffused
To that ultimate oblivion?
Why is my future married to death?
I know, if I had of returned to look in mid-air,
That sloth had no sense of its own pain,
Was not receptive to its end.
He did not endure like a dying prisoner
That descent into the ailing bed
Of little chick and mother hawk
To relieve them of their hungry tension
No afterlife for baby sloth; no mystified ascension
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Submission Name: After the Sunday Documentary
