Gnashing through vertebrae
into hot gut ropes, thudding sacs,
gristle clots and juice,
the velociraptor apprehended something
far off, like a blurred leg
in a photograph, a vague notion
that it would never lie purring
on a hearth rug, never know
the warm shackles of domesticity,
never feel a familiar palm
smooth its cranial ridge, cooing:
'Shh... good boy.'
Blood sluiced through its talons.
It went on eating.