Cerberus, thy muzzle
gleams immaculate
from filthy shadows.
Between thy ears
an orange Pentecost blooms:
brooding in a garden
of fanged repose.
Your hollow growling
and half-caste eyes
are numb with longing;
a skirmish of fleas
intensifies your spine,
Prince of dogs.
You will not let me pass,
hydrant of poor faith,
king of kenneled darkness.
Cerberus, o Hairy God,
you are a bad dog.