Flames

Loja, Ecuador The dogs are loose as tongues, slinking along the edge of houses, down the sidewalks, into the park’s hedges where they piss their rumors, tail-high. The dogs wail at the tuneful song the propane trucks play, selling gas like ice cream along the streets. The dogs bark, sometimes, wagging, message mutt-mixed. They lie,

i. A ball of wire supplants a body Body of tangled knots of wire The shirt ripped open to show The street inside. The dog that ran those streets Still runs above the salt caverns, Past cupolas and porches, rotundas— And somewhere a river. And somewhere a train, a track, And somewhere tears.  Numbness. Custer’s

we plant seeds in the rain today a slow drizzle falling on our faces as we bend over the little herb garden bed we share a pair of green knee pads both wearing one on our right leg like the uniform of some rogue gardening gang the rain beads on our slick jackets as we