At the end of eternity is the garden of our hound dog!

He’s there now, rolling his eyes dumbly in the terrible jungle,

Knowing from where he’s sitting that living on a golf course again would be hell.

There is little urine on the flowers he looks over now.

Our hero has sniffed the strange scent of uniform makers and rolled around in shit

In the ravine haunted by the ghosts of mailmen’s cats.

O the fur on this cur covers an ulcerated heart

Worn down by vengeance shouldered against traitor dogs who pissed on his plot.

My dear doggy! Your broken teeth, your gnawed-on ears,

Your paws are callused! Youth will not come to you again,

It has dried up while you ripped apart the carcass of some dead animal.

These yellow stains and this snatch of hair caught on the screen door are what’s left

To elaborate on your smell and your howl

And how I carried you out to the garden, heavy, with both my arms.