The tongue out

See and hear us buried here, where the loam
boils up like our ministries to each other.
Our company is hounds, hounds we name by
their coats, or their peculiar sniffings.
Different each hound. Different by shades
their coats, the only tapestry we peek of.
A certified music mean though it is,
the patter of paws we shouldn’t hear so well
but death sharpens every sense before we meet it.
I met a goofy man him in 1923, laid with him in 1950.


~ by Jeremy on June 7, 2012.

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