They have no wish to
hide themselves;
they’re happy in their work.

One I see, fresh out from town,
is slick with soap and
splashed Cologne.

The others rub him on the ears
(it’s all in monochrome)
tousling his hair and joking

men and women both,
the female faces round as plates,
the men more horse-like

in their features.
I’m free, it seems, to walk around.
The slaughter is industrial

and on the other side of sound.