Wednesday, October 20, 2010


Her voice we hear as dictionary speak when she hunts the field
One of us knows her as a thesaurus would chant her diction.

She moves upset. These things must happen to people.
She talks left foot "Jesus," and right foot, "mercy."

A siren call for us. Perhaps the blood pump
of her heel and toe, heel and toe praying 

is the same call of her setter bitches pointing scaled quail
in the scrub brush north of the BurMac blacktop.

Eight hours with her and no confession was heard
Other than the quick guilt of the downed birds.

The table grace of fine grained game and sauced roots
Is mostly enough to give us our leaving, once so called.

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