The dog has shrunk between the brake and clutch.
His shaking shakes a two-ton truck. From a God
so furious, he cannot hide his hide. Outside,
in the world at large, black hours are being
pearled and shafted. A tree stands out
spectacularly branched; the mind’s eye
grows alert. This thing can hurt.
It had us once, it’s having volts
of big idea again—about
thirteen a minute. Do we need
to know more? Are we sure?
Just wait—a brain this insecure
may need another bolt be driven in it.
