On the same day

in the alley between

Westfield and my house

appear both a carburettor

and a large plastic bag

containing something rotting.

A strip of a child's face

also appears, between

two fence planks;

she asks me to move the bag.

When I look through I see

she is holding something wet

and oval in her hand.

It looks like a closed-shell mussel

in a coat of caramel hair.

A dog leaps around her bare legs;

the girl says she had to

take it from his mouth.
A week later

the bag has ripped open.

Inside is part of a dead animal.

Grey fur;

large, cleanly cut bones.