Charred dogs grow
Into your winter home;
Home:
Belonging to the stubbed toes
Of your kid,
Balding men and women
Praying in the village that spins
Before a train divides you from
The fickle roads outside,
Lit by neon, not the breath of
Your backyard.
Don’t forget,
The glaze of sugar on your
Forehead
And the turning boys and girls,
Balloons of your city’s streets.
