The poise of silence hangs like an udder, small, parched. Sun has torched these streets pulsing them flat. Shadowless, they do not lie outside the windows of our dreams. Instead, they slide and snarl on our nerves. They never bare their teeth.
Dogs are gray with the sunlight's grease stiffly slimed across their sharp and pulsing ribs.
They are raw bones and their tails are whips which twitch in the moment's rest as if a command might slash their acrid bite across our eyes. Meanwhile their eyes, like uncertain stars pitted in the black basins of night, are thirsty and white. Like candles playing shadows across dim courtyards, the dogs glide. Sleepless they crack no voice to tear air in rags. They slink in narrow circles and edge the walls.