From the height of a highway on-ramp we saw:
2 dogs
Dead in a field
Glowing on the Oakland Coliseum
Green seats wasteland,
Dogs we thought were dead
Rose up when whistled at,
Rib cage inflating
Like men on the beach
Being photographed
Guard dogs
For what
Against
Overzealous
Penniless
Athletics
Fanatics
Getting
Into
Games
Through a
Hole in the
Fence?
For the owner of the blue tarp tent
Pitched by a creek beneath the on-ramp,
In the privacy
Of the last three trees
In dead east Oakland?

It's hard to stand the sight of two dog's dead
Under a sky so blue
You have to stop the blood to your head
To fit the death in front of you

We secretly long to be some part of a car crash
Long to see our arm stripped to the tendons,
The nudity of swelling exposed vein
Webbing the back of your hand
To be red tendoned dogs
Blood breathing by the side of the highway

Long to be dead
Of a curious crowd
To be touched
Sticky like nearly dry paint
Their soft science stare
Nursing your face
Anticipating the slightest
Pinched
Eye
Flinch
Of pain
Everyone blank
In accident awe
As the car
Crash
Fiber
Glass
Dust
Straight up settles
On your raw muscle tissue