A sonnet on the recognition of a dead dog

When that fatly haired cur finally wheezes the
last oyster-eyed breath, the world will turn a 
bit slower. The kaleidescope turns - free
colored glass shifting. The sun will burn a
hole through a stalk charm's fibers, if focused
carefully through a correctly curved shard. 
The hound's corpse rots on the sidewalk. Took us
a week to notice - no flies crawled on that hard
grim of concrete. (Those simple and true kinds
can feel the poison locked inside that still
and death-coiled body.) Many passing minds
are blind to this timeworn lesson, until
the one arrives that recoils in wide-eyed
recognition of the bones white inside.