Each bone dreams its
Own dog, limp bitch or brushed
Spaniel, and knows
It will be chosen
Above all others, buried
Away from the rest
In an eden of privilege.
And in turn, each dog
Dreaming the lone, shrilled
Note to which it will
Cock ear and come.

And the notes, well, when these
Bones, they promise,
Turn piccolo
In the paw-dug ground,

Then and then
Only
They’ll come around.