print previewback MICHAEL BAZZETT
The Conversation Paused
because the goat seemed suddenly heavy, turning
silently on its rope, knotted around the hind legs.
Its head hung as a pendulum, dark and slick.
Most of the blood had drained into the basin filled
with quartered onions and glossy thumbs of garlic.
It was a metal basin, positioned on a card table
beneath the goat. The yard was dusty, hot with the smell
of charcoal. But where the goat hung in the dappled
shade of the pepper tree, it was cool. A breeze stirred
the fine green leaves. That’s when the conversation
started up again, with quiet words, about nothing in particular. 
The Blank Page
The Conversation Paused
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