My fingers are curling
like the the legs
of a dog's.
(tell no one)
Daily offered bitter meat from a
dangerous God.
(keep it close tell no one)
I am God's dog,
lying in the sun,
Domestic.
Tearing small holes in the earth with my claws.
(and everyone knows)
Robert Allen lives and loves in northern California, where he writes poems, takes long walks, and looks at birds.