Outback the woodshed,
silos stacked inside the sky,
burrowing for some winter.
Fog, a thick persian runner
on the foyer of the forest, rolling
and suffocating the hills
as a wild dog gnaws
through a deer carcass
with just his front teeth,
stopping bite only
to nudge the few fat bits
to the hard ground.
My love
looks like
this.
And there's nothing
for me to do except howl
until a bad woman hears:
a woman who will never ask
why I don't call, who doesn't
call either,
pooling drool in the pockets
of my mouth, leave me slobbering,
sniffing for one taste
and kicking me off couch
with just a heel because she knows
go fetch is more fun.
I dream of a lover and I
moving from room to room
noses to the ground,
hunting each other
for the sport
of dimension:
How much
is too much?
It's true
I need a bad woman
with a cat tail tied to one paw
and a bowknife balanced
on her head, a fat mouth
so I know before the first snarl
that she'll tear my organs
and spit blood,
easy, back into the sink basin.
I need a bad woman.
I need a hound.