I know the dog stays empty inside,
and I’m going there. The dog’s slicked-back heart
        steps to the wetleaf scuffle of dawn,
and there’s Flaubert hoeing his garden and Chekhov,

lifting a bag of conversation they took turns throwing
        over their shoulders. It’s a little seedy and darker
than I remembered, and all day long I wag my loose end,
        and, having nothing to say, say it eloquently,

a little throne of turds raised up and soaked to a fly’s bounty.
We’re talking about knowing what you say when you donate.

Today I’m wild to chase anything that fears me,
        and a few things that don’t, the earth’s
sorghum hair slicked back by rain beneath
        my paws as I arrive at the hairline.

The children’s voices feel generously cruel
        (the crackling grab of a quick fire
dry inside broken limbs and leafspew, the wounded
        delivery of excitement at any cost).

I don’t know if I can follow my tale back from the discussion.
I’ll keep thinking with my body until my body thinks so.

 

 

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