This pig I live with really
does hover over much of
what I do and say it’s in
the room I lie in daily when
I try to tell myself the truth
about deceit or what I read
or just my being a jerk and lazy
pissy it brings to mind the swine
within and out of sight it’s like
a shadow in its knowing how
dark at heart I am in part
it loves the muck I’m often in
the sty and stink of me and my
it’s like a household deity now
whose name is mine to give and take
back in vain it’s black and beautifully
sketched by Baskin in fact as though
he’d thought it a holy beast of sorts
a sacred cow or Zen bull
someone was having trouble herding
its hooves delicate as a devil’s
prance cloven above the heaven
and hell of my head its law written
in red biblical letters says
for me it seems specifically—
Pig, poet, thou shalt not eat.