The dog is going to die
At the bottom of the garden.
I watch him – watch the
Rose bush, little middle
Of our earth or crooked
Elbow, welcomes a body
Without ceremony – heavy
Into the sky. Fingers that I
Whittled from hawthorn
Are helpless to the lines
Etched across our forward
Intent, save that we might
Chance upon the sweet
Rusted river that pushes
Through the dogwood
And somehow meet again.
There are fig trees and factories 