August 19


In Chihuahua I saw a dog with yellow ribs
and a face like a broken shovel.

South, I saw her again, in an alley
where children buried stones. I told my friend

the dog’s following, daily, like an unfilled
hole. He said it’s not the same dog just some

everywhere dog with yellow ribs and a howl
like dandelions crowding the wild foot hills

under rain and hail and microbursts that tear
the trees into shadow. I said, it’s the same dog

following and nothing he said will change
me because I can’t admit that those sounds

marking the hills might be armies, storms,
the stripes of a tiger on the hull of a dog.

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