His eyes are two hounds
In a strange yard
Driving at me under
The street light
Darkness wraps around.
I find it hard to know what they’ll do
If there is hunger or mischief
Only their hearts are full.
It is not speed that troubles me
But things hanging between their teeth:
Wind vane rusted to its base, duplicate keys
Calendar in one colour…
I fear these eyes, these energetic lives;
To save myself is to suffer them.
I wait for frost to stop their race
For heads to turn on awkwardness.
“My mother’s,” he says, in both hands
The band crowned with precious stone.