There's one dated 12/22/70.
"Black Dog."
This poem takes place on a telephone conversation
in a way.
Two Mexican wetbacks yelling, "Lunchie, Lunchie"
outside the door.
She's alone.
A beat skips across the wires.
It's a long walk back to Mexico, I
realize, on the broken spine of old vertebra mountains.
And the dog is on his rounds.
I suggest she give them ham.
She gives them tuna.
They leave.
I have other things I employ a doberman for.
To watch over scattered bones of dead beasts.
He knows.
Their sinews like roots grope in the alkaline soil.
The horse thief finds a lion's head.
Links fly on stolen wings.
All out of that cave go back in again in one form or another.
He keeps them clean and white and odd
because we are carnivores and will never settle in the Earth.