The Hound

At night, I listen

for the wild.

I room with fear.

I know its sound.

I know the dog.

(I am its child.)

Every night,

I hear a hound.

I try to walk

a little faster,

I never, ever

turn around.

Though I hardly

am its master,

every night

I hear the hound.

I know the place

he hides his bones.

I know his turf.

His plot of ground.

I know the midnight,

when it moans.

I am familiar

with that sound.

And though I’ve walked

a thousand paces,

there is no journey.

I gain no ground.

There are no voices.

Only faces.

And the one,

relentless sound.

There is no moon

where he is howling!

His beating heart

makes my head pound!

There are no words

for what he’s saying!

There’s just the baying,

and the baying,

and the baying,

braying sound.

It’s hunger makes

the belly growl.

It’s a haunted heart

that’s duty-bound.

Every night

I hear a howl.

Every night,

I hear the hound.

ML