Goats were sedated … before being put into harnesses
as part of the goat relocation program.
NEWS REPORT
Stoned, blindfolded, one
goat dangles above
a second, horns
sheathed, four
ankles bound
and then four more,
rhyming quatrains.
One goat is at the end of its rope.
The other is almost there.
The helicopter’s blades turn.
The helicopter turns.
The goats turn
and swing, a pendulum
of hoof and hair
keeping cloven time
and cleaving air.
The goats are not
on the Internet. I
am on the Internet
though anything
is possible
these days.
The problem is all inside your head, she said to me.
Just another click, Nick.
Then set yourself free.
When I met these goats
or their friends
years ago
in the mountains
my friends and I
threw rocks at them
on the considered advice
of the park ranger
who wanted the path
kept clear,
the congregation shy.
* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.
Bio:
Nicholas Bradley is a poet, literary critic, and editor. He lives in Victoria, British Columbia.