I ‘d Rather be a Shepherd Dog

Jumping through the hoops of an emerald jungle,
a fawn; old lassos of shiftiness of being: tilting, swinging – from the branches –
the clicks of its follies, hitting against the pebbles of sorrows,
clacking like hoofs.

To each his own.

I’d rather be a shepherd dog:
restless but stubborn like hell.
Guttling the innards of the mournful demons who came
cloaked in a hoof dust dusk, shrieking, I could tell –

Fuckers! They were born of my own.