You never walk into the same street
& fears are never quite the same—
& like dark animals they’re present
whether you wanted them or not
but white rubber boots are Apollonian
& you see the sun is as strong as always….
Here come the leather skinned lizards.
Everything they write is between the lines…
The dog in me wants reassurances about the sun and stars. Let’s call him Proclus, the dog who models circles, mimic of the universe as he lies down.
He has come home from the woods; his fur smells of horse weed, a Scandinavian mid- summer scent, part hay, part flowers. That the dog in me has been roaming is clear. Less obvious is his uncertainty, for his instinct is to worship the body’s capacity for survival, but his cultural memory won’t have it–one of the things most people do not understand about him. Dogs do understand death. Meanwhile, the poor boy is epicurean. He knows how to savor found fruit. He does not temporize.
Funny, all the vain pastries behind glass in the Strindberg Cafe.
Meanwhile the Heavens turn in silence…