The Eyes

Behind rusted bushhogs
and hundreds bottled
black and green rain drops

sits the grave. A pin
gnarled in links chain
and formless walls.

Lupe’s paw prints
sink the earth,
gather in mud pockets

like the holes
that line a thoughtless
heart: mine.

For years she sat
with yellow-red
eyes and ancient

frown, watching
the carousel of stars
through the tree’s

canopy. I bet
she hoped against
all laws of life

that somehow,
somewhere, sometime,
she belonged to another.

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