First draft of a poem

Emeryville Train Tracks, 2:30 p.m.

We are looking
for a lost dog.
Her name is Merlot.
Like a fine drunkenness
she has evaded us,
slipping traps,
stymying would-be rescuers.
Here the tracks
run without reason
to all locations --
there is nothing
 to stop her
from running as well,
fleeing to her death.
Here the rocks
edge against the sides
of my sandals,
begging me:
Trip.
Trip and fall.
Stop the search.
She doesn't want to be found.