Pickled in alcohol         because
Those things can't live         his eyes
Are open         but you can't stand to look
I heard from somebody who ...
But this is now almost all
Gone. The boys have taken
Their own true wives in the city,
The sheep are safe in the west hill
Pasture         but we who were born there
Still are not sure. Are we,
Because we remember, remembered
In the terrible dust of museums?
Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may
Be saying         saying
I am here, in my father's house.
I who am half of your world, came deeply
To my mother in the long grass
Introducing a startling change in  point of view,  the speaker prepares to transition into the voice of the sheep child itself. Surprisingly, this shift will actually elevate the subject matter even more beyond simple obscenity to a profound reflection on the relationship between man and beast. 

The Sheep Child