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Feeding the Hounds
On Cato Lane, a pot of bluefish ghosts a low boil.
Simmer and mist, a pre-thunder rumbling
till the bones come clean as whitened souls.
By hand, she lifts the filigree of spine, ravels
loose the symmetry of flesh from rib, works
warm fish into dry kibble. The kitchen’s wreathed
in fog; it smells oddly like supper. Hounds clamor
and leap as she walks out to feed them. A phone
rings on in the empty kitchen. Miles off, another farm,
the vet will draw the dose, the good brown horse
will go down slowly, knees and hocks folding,
white petals of apple scattering, chickens thrumming
in his ears, the low hum of sleep approaching,
and the sky going somewhere unexpected. 
Feeding the Hounds
Moon Blind
Sleeping
in the Good Bed