Sunday, June 14, 2015

The Old Man and the Dog

The sound from the dog's throat,
a throat not designed
to wail or shriek,
not designed
to scream
through a froth of blood.
The man's soul hesitates,
hovering, just touching
the hot black road.
The sound cuts him to ribbons.
He floats, waiting for the quiet dark
that never comes.

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