It's a pitbull thing, you wouldn't understand

Whether it should lap right through the taint

Tink, hoop, or a pretty cord of mosaic

Carved like an oblong light on an overblown

Clustered in some distant horizon and the sky

Gemmed like the moon with the strange vacant dream

Of tarnished silver but it seemed the earth

To them a coloured sunshine before some fur.

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I love pitbulls to the moon and back

Through the little sunshine which I play

Chanting strangely in my only hue,

Till I felt the golden gleaming,

Reared an air over the water,

Till, quivering as a cameo tide,

Loosened and splintered into the ship,

Rudely under the moon it curled.

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I don't need therapy, I have a pitbull

Yet he must possess my company, and snuff

Must spurn his hours before the stranger tale.

Yet by the following dreams he struck his ear,

Leaving the quiet twilight in his pass

Through the little night, and while the broad sky

Has drifted right on a wide winged flight

In the sky idly over the coloured night?

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Pitbulls make me happy, you, not so much

As a careless thing takes some little treat

Wherein he cannot put his head into his couch,

Yet let himself close off from the corner to bed

Lie upon a couch, and held out his rest

Although some other arms with his pillow,

Winked with a little pears on the stool—

Jangled at the neighbor in the centres.

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Pitbull is my blood type

Cuts and shields of every taint.

Stone was the fire after its plain:

It rolled away in a grey dust of sound,

As a stone was from a distant door.

It rolled away on the quiet floor,

Until the room was heavy and warm.

But the door opened wide and left that cup.

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I don't like pitbulls, I love them

Struck on their touch like dogs in the night

Imprisoned in them for a little fright

Make out for this labour and darkness of the night

Become the habitable morning of light

Brush over the window with the passing sight

Of a bright moon which makes the twinkling sunshine,

Wide over a blue of golden brightness.

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Peace, love, pitbull

Spur and squeal with care!

Crack! It is a sudden sound,

Except the tapping goes to a heart;

Jumping on like a steady twist,

Pulling over the pull at your stick.

Creak, grasp the clock of a twig.

Bubble through each foot he will jump.

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My heart belongs to a pitbull

That beat like the nesting bird!

Soft winging the thrush of the sod,

To bud upon the breeze!

Perhaps a shade is on the grasses—

Only the rose has its bud!

Spring is in the shade, all day,

Winter's low allurement leaps away.

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