The Cur

I

The wild dogs in the road weave and smell
among the stones like dry rivers prowling
for rain. When they are gone, you say,
"They will never find it, whatever it is."

"Even the sun is sick," you say, "eating
that wormy meat on the hillside." In truth,
the sun is feverish, bumping across
the sky on the flat bed of a truck, hoping

to get to the doctor in time. "And there's the moon,
with her teeth gone, waving from her high window."
The rain, we wonder, what has become of the rain?
Weak from amoebas, it crawled away to the coast

and lies in the tangled trees tormented by
mosquitos. Of the gods, only the wind
is up. He paces from mountain to mountain, torn
by thorns, rubbing handfuls of dust in his hair.