Dogs of the world, anonymous
wanderers, moral conundrums,
I find them by the road,
scavenging milk cartons
thrown from the bus:
feist pups galled with mange,
old hounds, blind and lame,
at the end of their utility.

Such I once whispered secrets to
and begged to keep
and was commanded
to lead into the woods
to execute and bury.
And my father was not a bad man.
And Saint John Perse wrote,
“I had a horse.  Who was he?”

Do animals have souls?
My favorite channels
the spirit of Veronica Franco.
Veronica Franco or Marie Duplessis.
She is orange, small, and elegant,
a golden-lab beagle mix—
I do not know why she comes to me.
I do not feed her and she is not my dog.