—for Ron Koertge
and signs and abominations
and what we were born for, dogs
bouncing the fields—cur, mutt, stray.
When we find a few friends, we crash
through trees, when we taste blood
we’re bound to it,
and the night paces
the way it is, a fine excess of sound
and the river sings, walking
with the bear, living a long time alone.
We howl in this wild good fortune
sharpen our part of speech—
who goes there, the dead and the
living? And out of nature, yellow silk
of yard light, spilling house—
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.
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