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>> This next poem is a poem
about insomnia and about dogs.

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For some reason insomnia is
always filled with barking dogs.

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I never and I never understood.

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Well, now of course I understand, but it's
strange how dogs write their own composition,

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compose their own music and barking at night.

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And one dog starts to bark and
then a second dog starts to bark.

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And then, a lot of dogs are barking.

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And you never know if they're in
your head or really in the night.

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So this is about insomnia
and also about cynicism,

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since that dog and can cynicism comes from.

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Noche cínica.

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Ya noche ladran cuántos perros,
ladran amarrados a su palo de astillas,

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ladran con los brincos de gato, sobre la
mata seca, el crujido de ramas bajo la uña.

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Ladran con el silbido, ladran
a jalones rasgando la madera.

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Ladran por la noche bajo el árbol enjuto.

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Ladran, pienso mientras oigo despierta.

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Ladran porque no se calló el
segundo, por voluntad de orden,

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por no segar el círculo de hocicos en coro.

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Porque si uno se detiene, ya nunca
culminaría quizás el rito erizado.

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Pelo contra reja.

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De ese tiempo en que no duermo cuando hay perros
de más en mi cabeza y uno afuera en el hambre.

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Aunque tal vez nazca de otra visión
su cautela, el gruñido de fondo,

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la gutural colmillo adentro, tripa
vacua, ¿a qué viene con la calle sucia?

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¿a retribuirme con su historia de cuerpo inerte
cuatro patas a mi puerta, su racimo de moscas,

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la noche incluida como un episodio de tanto
perro múltiple que seguirá semana tras semana,

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y así hasta el final, parte de un
método, etcétera, perro en perro,

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ladrando, mordiendo que incluso duele?

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>> These poems we've been reading
after Nieve which is of course

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in the Kore Press book How Light Is Built,
these poems are from a manuscript,

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selected poems that we've been working
on together for quite some time

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and that we hope to bring out soon.

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And this poem Night Cynical, we had the
pleasure of having it published in Terrain.org,

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a wonderful journal, the journal of
built and natural environments and Simmons,

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who is the editor of that journal is here today.

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So I just want to say thank you, Simmons.

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We appreciate it.

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Wonderful journal, Terrain.org.

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You know where to find it.

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Night, Cynical.

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At night, they bark.

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So many dogs, they bark tied
to the splintered post.

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They bark at the cat's leap, on the dry
shrub, branches crackling under claws.

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They bark at whistles.

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They bark at their stakes, ripping wood.

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They bark all night under the withered tree.

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They bark, I think, as I listen wide awake
because the second dog could not keep quiet,

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because of rage for order, because they will
not break the circle, the choir of muzzles.

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Because if one of them stops, it may never
culminate the bristling rite, fur against fence.

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In those hours, when I do not sleep, when there
are too many dogs in my head and one outside

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in hunger, although maybe this caution springs
from another vision, deepest growl, fanged,

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guttural, empty gut, why is
it here on this dirty street?

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To pay me back with its story of a
motionless body, four paws at my door,

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its cluster of flies, the night
included as one more episode.

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So many dogs week after week and so on until
the very end, part of a method, etcetera.

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Dog after dog, barking, biting, hurting, even?