A black and white terrier bolts
out an unattended back door
into the thick smell of pines.

A white and black Michigan
bishop breaths and dotes on
his purest parishioners.

Near the Neusse River my mother
mopes about punctures in her palms
from a white primrose with black thorns.

The jack terrier
pauses
in dappled forest light,
bares
his smile knowingly.

The Bishop cries: I excommunicate
rainbow girls for sitting in pretend pots
of gold, and take their host away
to teach them Christian etiquette.

My mother confesses to rich top soil
flowery lies about love, chokes
on her pollinated lust for my peace
that won't be trained to stay.

The terrier has caught a rat.
Bowing his black head, he folds
paws over a tremble,
and partakes of the stillness.