Some Ghost

The dogs are disquiet. 
           They will neither  
hush nor heel.  
                      They hold  
the moon & their master  
                      in contempt  
                      as they lap  
water, whip this way  
& that, pace,  
           heads cocked,  
                      unraveling  
some subsonic message 
of tectonic issue.  
                      What to do  
with a dawn like this?  
                      A man sleeps.  
                      His dogs pace.  
A distress of ambulances  
           pass.  
                      The sky  
is a pathogen filled with police  
choppers.  
                      A man  
sinks like a moon 
into sleep.  
                      The dogs  
watch the moon  
           sink like a tooth  
into a glass of milk.  
                      A ghost  
           drowning in a ghost.