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.
