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Sport 40: 2012

postscript to the kreisau dogs

page 175

postscript to the kreisau dogs

the one who says poems are like these dogs
in the thick of the village caught in their own

echo in the scraping and waiting at half moon
doggedly marking out the territory of language

doesn’t know you—you bellowing hell-hounds
you cassandras of sound in the back of beyond

for behind my back you set out to stitch together
what is word and what is calf into an insolent bite

as if this leg of mine were only a page
and the order of things an exchange:

my boot here still bears the imprint of your
teeth—four prize pinches from that clinch

yes you deserve the verse that comes after
so the world sure dogs poetry     at its heel