Road Kill

Black birds eat the ropes of the dead
red trickling down onto the gravel
spilling out like soiled milk
the birds they peck at the tiny
hairs, spit out the tiny hairs,
filling their mouths
again with the sweet taste of
white meat, whatever it was
is gone,
now no remnants of what was lost
what has died has found its home
in heaven, its soul lifting up
into the open arms of sky
but we still see the body as we drive past
the entrails, the intestines, the slime
the birds they drag the body
a few inches trying to get their snack.