POETRY

	Dirge 

   For the rottweiler who slumps on the gravel drive. When you
   lift him his muscles yield like rubber. It is all the he can do
   to nudge his own head under the shade of your just stopped car.
   Tongue purples. Fur flies like the cottonwood from Stalin's poplars
   accumulating in gutters until a downy pile ignites from the stray flick
   of a cigarette. What we can't see: boiled bile, evaporated
   electrolytes. Unable to blow a cap or valve, the dog overheats.

   All day I've been returning to last summer, Moscow. No shade, no air.
   The shutter slow-clicking through the city's 11:30 dusk. The weather
   bakes my nostalgia while you, neighbor, reach down your dog's throat
   believing there is something you can clear away to smooth his broken
   breath. The same pragmatic confidence you use shovelling
   shattered plaster from your kitchen to make way for the drywall.

   If the world ended in ice, he might have revived long enough
   to see it. As it is, the world burns. The soft, hairless skin under the dog's
   front legs as we hoist him, sears our palms. Direct, O Lord, my God
   the molten planet shifting under the great pads of his paws and help
   us to sing this service as we travel our fiery way in thy sight.