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.