All I long for now
is peace, peace, peace,
but my longing is an animal,
a mangy camp dog
sheltering in my felted tent,
stirring, stirring in the night,
ears pricked in alert sleep.
It rumbles a growl
deep in its throat,
lifts its broad head,
sniffs the night,
breathes the beating of the stars,
the pulsing of the black emptiness,
translates the small bleats and shufflings
of the hot-uddered goats
inside their thornbush fence,
whimpers at something far, far in the distance...

My longing is a camp dog
whining for the inexplicable distance;
my longing is a camp dog
twitching in its sleep;
its suede flanks, its muscular thighs,
quivering
in dream chases
across the open places.

My desire- a camp dog stirring, dreaming,
then resting its square snout once again
on the hard-packed earth,
to fall into a trembling kind of sleep,
until, once again,
a distant yapping,
a nickering,
(a stranger's whiskered jaw, half seen),
makes the dog stir,
lift its head...
wait.