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Feeling Like the African
By Allan Peterson

Where I am, with me is
Frances to whom my muscles are attached
dogs that perk with a whistle,
catching urgency from whatever state I call.
Even the strangest will do the same:
And what has flown low below me, stingrays,
loons, hooded mergansers
the almost frozen wolf eel ribboned in the depths,
whose beauty is my god's
revenge on austerity, whose cloudy wrist tells time,
white as a moonstone.
But I have no god It is just me feeling like the African
figure full of nails
that says the future is likely all rust and worms, muscular,
attentive, but with extra dogs.