Shopping for Meat in Winter

WHAT lewd, naked, and revolting shape is this?
A frozen oxtail in the butcher’s shop,
Long and lifeless upon the huge block of wood
On which the ogre’s axe begins chop chop.

The sun like incense fumes on the smoky glass,
The street frets with people, the winter wind
Throws knives, prices dangle from shoppers’ mouths.
While the grim vegetables, on parade, bring to mind

The dreamy countryside bathed in golden sleep,
The trees, the bees, the soft peace everywhere —
I think of the cow’s tail, how all summer long
It beat the shapes of harps into the air.