What the hounds are likely to do is any body's guess.
Sometimes they attack the attacker, sometimes they
nap on the porch, often you can find them upon
their paws, watching a fly or something and occasionally
tilting their heads. This poem is so much more than
they can imagine and so much less.
At the same time, this poem is frightened and full
of fatigue and emptiness. The type of fullness
that is wasted in echoes struggling to conquer the universe.
All day, a chipmunk of doom crossed over my insides,
gnawing like a word you consistently spell wrong. I
have known tiny, teardrop-shaped caves and have slept
in the bad bed, bunches. Even now a tiny galloping is
happening across my insides and a field of animals are
stamping and glowering and pacing. In my life, I've never
hunted wild game. In my life, I've never set foot in Africa
or seen a lion maul a member of my family. I'm ignorant of tons!
I have seen animals on TV doing lots of stuff, however. I have
also been an animal my whole life. So what I'm saying is this:
I believe that some of my thoughts are valid. I think
sometimes my perceptions jive with reality. And, in that case,
I'm at a strange loss and also itchy. You know,