In this dimension, we are small
As the makeshift dogs we cast
With our hands. Runic as their pelts.
Sun strewn recklessly over
Their braided backbone, akin to the railway
That rattled us back alive.
Our knuckles coil feral and primitive,
Yet we give them our names. Our make-do dogs
Bare gums like spent shells: itinerant, innocent.
I envy them, their needlessness to be
Extraordinary. To no longer reach
For that spangled ceiling. Or worse,
The chord that resembles a horizon line
From my bedside angle. I wait for life to stun me
Like feathers blooming from my arrow-
Struck chest. For a pull so celestial
I forget to wash the sweat from our raisined hands
