The dog has the smell of bread, and though she’s moving now her fragrance trails. I turn on a lamp thinking there might be a cartoon version of her scent, “stink lines” in the air but only dust motes appear, full of motile contradictions. I see sparkles but not faces. I wonder if dogs see motes. We, dog and man, decide to go out. She’s at the door. I take her hint. In snow I see nothing. Light falls into the gray sea. My dog, my loaf of ancient bread, walks me among the trees.
Planet of the Blind 