Yelps, snaps, snarls –
brother & sister littermates arf off out there
just for the stinky-wet polyp-popping
gun dog heck of it. Jeers, threats, tears –
a delicious symphony to flapping outlaw ears
above each slobbering jet black blob
of pell-mell nonsense, their carefree feet
slashing like lobsters.
Puppy Buffer
tries out his new teeth on a stray rock,
daring the world to try taking it off him.
Until, quietly, you do. Slick
with saliva, a scratchy ironstone discus
older than any temper.
Thinking through the fling of it:
“Slitting the dead-man’s throat.”
A broken window costs six allowances;
a broken ocean is free.
Whipping out sidearm to slice
flight itself, suspending offhand pride until
it dives & dies without a gloat. The sure kill
without a wave goodbye.
And the curve of the world
on the globe in your mind –
vertical moment held outside any notion of now –
projecting a larger gist at the edge of
another possibility: thrown beyond shared listening,
the best ones clear horizons.
All for the best lifts its leg, relieves itself of memory
if we’re about to keep on going.
Pyres arise & blaze, casually lifting kids & dogs
to the best of storied mysteries –
our songs belonging to a longing sweeter
than any danger.
Redefining that beckoning headland,
insuring we’ll be seen at sea. The usual tide
asserts itself, taking over everything
given & forgiven. How many waves does it take
to wash away anything
written in blood? How many dreams
can you fit in a rune?
