patron saint of the doghouse/dog walk

Glint and glow.

Vague starlight pulled 

down to chainlink

diving out 

of  slobbering jaws.

Beware 

St. Dymphna’s head 

is piked at my front gate. 

There is still horizon.

Behind her

holy bloat 

and tongue post sign—

directions to the moon.

But tomorrow 

the dog will grow sick

from lunar cheese

we sliced and shared Tuesday night 

with apple vinegar and Effexor.

The doctors will have to sedate him. 

Crush dandelion anaesthetic 

to ease the pit knot nausea.

They will read me an obituary 

before sending the shocks, 

knowing a dog will no longer be 

a dog. 

Be this dog. 

Blunt the incisors so he doesn’t

saw his dorsal arm off. 

For now he eats fireflies 

in my backyard.

Getting fat on the night.

Crushing the lilies. 

Nocturne loam as I take 1000mg of Tylenol 

for the hypnic headache, 

stretch marks in the making 

that will wine themselves 

before the dog walk.