“Coyote tracks show that their hind feet land in the same spots as their front feet…a trait called ‘perfect walking.’”
– Julia Vogel, Coyotes
Over jacaranda trumpets, through violet
petal confetti smearing the L.A. street
you triumph toward the den, your violent
night mission fulfilled, chihuahua meat
and cat blood ripening in your plush belly.
You’ll resurrect them for the pups and bitch
waiting at the heart of your paved yellow-
threaded territory; a painted running stitch
holds this patchwork of black asphalt intact
so you may roam, song dog, placing your hind
feet, as you stain the stucco housing tracts,
precisely where your front have fallen. Blind
to this inborn form, your blithe ghost-grace, you weave
your fine bone net: rabbit, lizard, fledgling, snake. Wholly
inhabited, your body manifests the perfection of heaven.
Car lot. Koi pond. Mouse. Each corner, every death, holy.
