Afterdamp of April, evening thaws.
A hungry mutt
                           yowls a bruised gospel,

            its body a dying star—
throat aflame with want.
                  Night thickens

            with the reek of things unwanted
by heaven. An owl calls to a hole
                    in the sky where the moon once fit.

            Wolves circle this village,
snatch blind children mid-street.
                     Lord, make me the hound

            that crawls beneath the porch to rot.
Let me return home, alone,
                   unravel each worn ligament

from bone, dissolve
            into this tilted hour.



*First published in Dialogist.