One called "Captain Dog," which is a name one of my students
gave me years ago.
I hope out of fondness, but one never knows.
Dennis Saylor, Greg.
If you remember him.
You probably know Dennis Saylor, one of those Fresno people.
"Captain Dog"
Another December, another year gone to the bleached Pacific.
A little castle of snow falling across the sky
I wanted to linger in for a while.
And so I lose touch.
The walls in their ice dismembering,
shrinking like aches, a slide and a by-your-leave.
The nights with their starred palms press down.
Black moths on the screen door.
Slow breaths to stop the body's bleeding, deep breaths.
I am jump-cut and Captain Dog, staked in the shadow
of nothing's hand.
I bend like a finger joint.
I gather.
I burn.