Is it coyote or dog? All that matters: it doesn’t run well in packs.
Only a wet tongue panting, or tucked, watchful pink.
I don’t know anything but. Dancing to Pussy Galore
is the Most Memphis Thing I have.
I am no coyote but. There is some danger in me. Always one eye on the blue lake
of self. I like to look but. A blanket of snow over strangeness. I have trouble
not writing it. To let the form be aware—that’s not a thing I have.
That’s alright now, mama. That’s alright with me.
You know, I always read your horoscope. By which I mean,
I always read my horoscope. By which I mean, I believe
in the future, somehow. And in circles overlapping.
And in missing someone sometimes, and not others.
I trouble with the wood stove and sit alone. God, though I love to be alone.
Which is not to say, I don’t want you.
My tongue tucked safely away
in its little tooth lake. It seems it also prefers to sit alone.