...the hundreds of headstones sighing and gleaming like bones...
Oil-black night, inner ear of a week-dead deer carcass...
and everyone wants their work on display.
Neanderthal-dumb, you stare up and up-further
into something like distant black construction paper.
Flesh-rot and flesh-melt...
no matter how many escalators are invented.
If not for the young Wolfhound, you would feel alone,
no more than a scrap of wig on a bald rock.
No media-predicted flash... no pin of light
rushing godward with cosmic wind-clatter-'n-scream.
Irish Wolfhound (at 10-months-old) and Young Poet