Sunday, November 3, 2013


The stick your dog picks up on the street
looking back at you while walking,
eyes warm, alert and amused,
in his mouth a trophy to expose,
a clean, honed prey to carry about,
you would never have seen it,
and once he drops it another comes up
instantaneously, you never see him
picking it up and there is no
magician’s trick, just the quick walking,
this new one is even more honed
and white, like marble, and sharp,
a blade the moon has polished
together with the teeth now brandishing it,
it must have been so alluring and near,
it’s now what the skin of the soul reveals
piercing each second with what really is.

1 comment:

Crafty Green Poet said...

this made me smile, I'm always amused by the attraction sticks have for dogs.