Never was a parable so small
yet so blood filled as the song
of the dog tick. Out in the garden
near the shadows of butterfly.
Remember when the box started scratching?
Twenty seven cacoons started
wanting to fly? Oh yes
the book shelf and we were eating
our breakfasts. Woke up and just
started eating. All the noises
but not like the sound of a tick
burning in the ashtray because
that is more silent still.
Burn tick burn, bother not the dog.
He only waits for your mysterious arrival,
the one on the wind, the one he never chose.
The tick fasts and gorges, dies.
The parable lives on.
