The bitches' ears go back; they stand frozen in poses of toe-testing and finally sink like sphinxes into the sand.
Puzzling behavior is often the result of sounds inaudible to the human ear, yet tonight it is still as a lake bed.
They can hear much farther, other packs, the highway, emptiness of radio waves bouncing against their heartbeats.
Like bats, their shameless emotions are broadcast and return as a map, but a monolith, with all space filled in.
As you walk between buildings in your black cap, far away from here, my love is a beacon that stuns me sleeplessly.
We can all still smell the jetsam of your last moon on this octant of the planet. The room and land have turned strange.
In a wide mountain ditch carved by wind and absences, a bowl of gases, sits a house where dogs keep the vigils of men.
Jack Skelley’s Brian Jones *
2 hours ago