Sometimes a roc omlette's all that'll hit the spot.
You know the way it goes:
you execute a yak, tip it onto its side
and unzip its belly while it's still hot,
scooping viscera onto the grass,
red and wet up to your elbows.
Then you slice off the hide, tug it tight
around your shoulders and wait for the near-sighted griffins -
the talons sunk into loose, gusseted flanks,
I have soared through mistrals, over grey straits
and wetlands and rolling tundra,
to the jag-ringed island where the great mother waits,
warming her egg like a forge hammer,
a pizza stone.