[Hounds]

poems pulse through our blood
pressing words into our arms
until the skin is worn away
they send us heads
that almost fit our shoulders

wandering
from room to room, we sometimes do
things wrong, waiting for
a better body to arrive        *the poems in our skin
cause the dead to reappear
as hounds; they feed
for six months, storing away fat
growing muscles and
teeth; they live in the dark
part of our cabin, herding us
toward each new sorrow
or inspection

shivering all night
behind the bee-hives, we’d run
away, but these hounds
have a stronger voice
than the forest