This wolf-dog is
the best defense
against too big a dose
of silence
when the stringency
of your own blood in your head
could hem you in.
This walking hunger
will eat out of your hand.
It’s half intelligent.
It would turn wild,
hunt anything, hunt me
down too if I didn’t
keep it domesticated, fit
bones between its teeth,
let it hunt dead logs.
They can’t escape.
It combs their sides
and wags its tail,
my dog with wolf in it,
and sniffs around the room,
teasing the corner of your eye,
noticing the walls, the ceiling,
fuller than the sound
of running water as it goes
on reading to you quietly
reciting this matter
which, even if it did
have words,
you wouldn’t understand.
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