The dog
is something: fur
like black moss hanging,
tongue ruddy as a wrist slashed,
bark like a gunshot,
breath foul as the inside
of a bottle of pills.
And,
he talks.
Says the same thing
every time I check the bank account,
stare at the inside frost on the window,
look into the rooms that sit empty
except for the clutter of half-hearted attempts
at creating order.
Says,
I really don’t need to bite you
to prove that I’m still here,
do I?
Dark Matter 
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