Dog lying on the table. Golden and cold like
A wig, and tongue out.
The boy gets a clip of fur,
Rubbing the starchy fibres between his fingers.
Nights on the couch, curled up,
Brown eyes like chocolate.
Misses the stampede,
Drumming, dancing naked like wild pagans.
Anger fevers in his veins.
Grief is a seed.
A stitch sliding through flesh.
His hand gripping the cup of it,
Held close like a holy book
To breathe in ink and salvation.
He pours it out and puts it down,
And remember it as it was.
