Good Fences

You are a yard a few porch steps
a doorway away
from a small bit of dried pork
a warm house
your favorite pillow bed

but you do not come when I call
your snout burrowed in the bottom
of the chain-link fence, nose
pushing up against its loose tie
with the dirt aching forward
digging to slip out
beyond this confined patch
leash-less unbounded
or in the rabble—free

but no freedom is out there
the night is coming
with its chilling winds
howls of coyotes contained
under the moon’s brutal apathy

What god could speak this truth to you?
What language is more seductive
than those hidden grasses?
What limits could match
the night’s low roar?


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