--- J A M E S   H O C H

You can see it on the face of a black lab 
           shaking 
his head, as if he can't believe the new
           fangled 
device stocking his neck, puritanical, 
           electric, 

a twentieth century collar which delivers 
           a charge, 
not enough to kill or inflict a visible wound, 
           only a few  
volts, temporary they say, for its own good 
           as they stake 

a perimeter of flags, something he might 
           remember 
when a bird or cat or child parades by,
           a voice 
prodding: No. Stay. A jolt to say: Boundary,
           Property- 

A kind of knowledge, the desperate way 
           he waits 
by the fence, peering out/in, hunger/ 
           affection, 
as if readying to receive a word, a hand, 
           the next

sentence, as if about to leap into a bog of 
           cranberries.