Our catahoula hound
roams the unmowed ground
at every hour—makes hours
with its rounded tours,
buried to unburied kill.
A lizard on the windowsill
is a week dead. The tree, dry
as a jarred dragonfly.
Mites and motelight choke
in the shade. When I speak,
it's to the fox teeth I gather
near the creek. Brother,
I say, show me your hand.
Brother, he says, stand
close to me. The slaughter
is sure. Come taste this water.
