The Dogs of Bucharest
The dogs of Bucharest are dusted
with crumbled mansions, ash
of red flags. They doze
in ruined dreams abandoned
by their masters. They bark
whelp, and die without
plan or permission. Ocasionally
like thinkers, like poets
they are rounded up
A bitch with flapping teats haunts the ruined foundry
where I film entertainment
for the illiterate of my own country.
This feral dog eyes the proffered roll
trembles, intention sharpened
as a pencil. Whimpering
pups beneath a wrack of ruined iron
do not soften her stiff-legged fear.
Sad and sooty sumacs
tattered sorrel, small luminous, lavender flowers
conquer the twisted rubble
vanquish the iron tracks.
Seed, stem, and bramble
trump the stained concrete
trump all, but the gnawing hunger
of the dogs.
Causes Peter Coyote Supports
The Global Security Institute, Native Sovereignty Issues, Wild Earth( Natural Corridors Program),