Mudlark No. 47 (2012)

The Hook Dog Blues

In the notes between the singing the hook dog sounds.
It centers the silence. The shoulder that always means 
more. But the shoulder don’t know the mesas, and it 
don’t know the Wheel, or those lakes of leg gone bad.
Little is left except the staccato crack of a branch man.
The nests give off a subtle shade, of the missing echo, 
a daily engine and the old done dared. If the hook dog
can even sense anymore where the scent went south it

is unclear to anyone here. A drumming begins to edge 
in from the hotspots of the hills and quickly insinuates
itself into the seams. Scrubbing will prove insufficient. 
In the memory of the people nothing can prepare them

for these stalks of gypsum hanging like stunned ghosts 
from off the acacias. At night, strange exchanges float
through the trees, and settle, with the children waiting 
there on some kind of notion, to get up, and finally go.   

Jeffrey Little | The Portable Alone
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)