MATTER

 

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.