10 February 2020

Postcard 186

Bodies come and go, break and grow
Let cripple be a word that only serves for souls

I finally have man's own dog and understand
each sweet impulse unchecked by thought

I'd had a whale's age -- submerged. And they still
surface in dreams sometimes like mother's breath

These dog's days are the good god's glass
on my own inadequacy. My larger self --

always theoretical -- is light as hollow boned bird
is round as cat catch bird as catch can

A self rolling spine insensate. As in hand in air,
as in jaws. All all Holy Holy

Kick a dog for guilt, though. A lame
and grounded bird is fierce, then cold

A wounded cat -- tiger noble, tiger gold
Kick your dog to know your crippled soul

These coming dog years, perhaps
a decade, perhaps a score,

they will be my measure. I shall find
what my worth is as I become old

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