has seven vowels and two consonants
in his name that must be spoken
to the accompaniment of
moonlight or siren’s scream.
He does not require
service and loyalty but rewards
them with a warm rug.
Genuineness,
a major virture of the faith,
is strictly observed so even
hesitation’s a minor sin.
That’s why so many dogs die crossing
interstates.
Somewhere between lane three
and four, the impulse changes to
discovery of that flattened
rabbit or cat.
God wants followers
to follow their noses the way
people once pursued dreams.
Dogs stay
medieval by making everything
an aspect of faith.
Squirting on
bushes and tree trunks spells his name.
It’s the s-hisses against sidewalk
and sizzles in sun that are most
like psalms and prayers.
His bowels drop
proverbs.
The symbol of god is
the long chewable stick.
No believer
will allow one to be thrown away
that has been shaped and licked.
I love
the god of dogs who doesn’t look
like a dog at all.
He’s just a hand
coming out of air, and a voice
that smells for all the world like meat.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
