who says that poems are like these dogs
surrounded by their own echo at the village core

of the waiting and pawing at half moon
of the stubborn marking of language terrains –

he knows you not, you frantic barkers
cassandras in wallachia’s sonic reverie

you bring what’s called and what’s calf
in a foolhardy bite from behind

together as if a leg were but a leaf
and the order of things a trade:

in one of my boots still the imprint
of your teeth, a gnarly four nips

that’s your reward for a pursuant verse
the world follows poetry at heel