dogs.

We're all wolves, I guess. 

We are the pack,

Endlessly tracking the scent

of the long-dead foxes

And their flesh-less kits, 

Craving something original. 

The slant-eyed, sly,

Cinnamon foxes

Tease us with their ghosts.

The prancing, sly,

Dustyred foxes

Bark an echoing taunt.

"What are you missing?

And what are you seeking?

You've destroyed Beautiful

With your own jaws."

But I'd sooner drown myself
In watercolors
And choke myself
With bronze strings,
Than join in your hunting, howling
For the sake of belonging.

And that's what marks me different;
And that's what slowly kills me
And burns me up
From drooping tail to damp nose-tip.

Fire sets me orange-crimson
Like the fur of the foxes.

The world is more like this, 

Don't you think?