The meat were rising from it. Or it is like

Flies crawling....I saw the dog in a dream.

And then, days later, just before dawn,

I climbed to the orchard. And there he was.

The same dog. Chewing on a dead doe.

And it was troubling. I thought I might

Still be dreaming—as was the case

When for many months I could not sleep

And I lost the power to tell the figures

In my dreams from those we call real.

I thought the scene might have been staged

For me. By my mind. Or by someone

Who could read my mind. Someone

Who was having a good laugh

At my expense. Or testing me

In some way I could not understand.

Beneath the black and yellow trees,

The dog’s skin seemed abnormally white.

And the blood on his broad muzzle shone

Like wet paint. I closed my eyes. Not because

The ghostly creature was now biting

At the neck of the doe, the way

Those dark creatures who drink blood

And live forever do—since the river

Of blood flows forever, the streams

Of an eternal city, forever running,

Forever carrying their musky loads

Of blooming and expiring words

And figures, a thousand thousand

Yellow lights forever flickering off

And on in the black liquid, gold,

Sweet liquid, fallen—I closed my eyes.

Not out of distaste. But to see if the dog

Would disappear, the way the mist

Had thinned and vanished as I climbed

The hill. But the dog was still there

When I opened them. Staring straight at me.

He lifted his large paw. Placed it

On the doe’s chest, and started to rip

At her belly. There was the sound

Of cloth tearing. And what did I do?

I picked up an apple. I wanted to see

If the dog—when the apple struck his side

And he fell—would rise in a second form,

And then a third. As dream figures do.

Dog. To horse. To man. Or I wanted to see

If the apple would pass through the dog

As through a ghost. And if the dog

Like the best of ghosts would turn

And instruct me in my confusion.

Or I wanted to bring the scene down

To size. The way the bright lights

That clank on at the end of the play

Show the mad king to be nothing

But a skinny man holding a costume

Of cloth and paste. I wanted the dog

To be just a stray, gnawing on a bone.

Or maybe I wanted none of these things.

Maybe I wanted what the hunter

Wanted when he struck the doe. Maybe

I wanted a piece of the dog’s feasting,

The way the hunter wanted a piece

Of the doe’s improbable swiftness.

The gun fires. The smell of burnt powder

Sprays up. A knotted string of birds

Unspools across the white sky. And deep

In running blood the hunter thrusts his hands.