Lain beneath the filigreed dust
of a spattered mackerel sky,the
snaggle-toothed, black matted mongrel,
wet tongue lolling over spracked
slack lips, its sickly damp dog smell,
blood-bloated fetid breath,
embraces easy slumber, rattlesnake
snores and lumbers light,
beneath the adipose surface,
its conscience unencumbered.
On Canicular days I would poke
with a stick or slick-sharped blade,
bid him wake to rake my face
with rancorous claws but not today.
The dog days are long past, now
rapture fasts while winter feasts.
Let the lying canine sleep,
I choose to bury the baying beast.