dogs

the witness, visored gloom,

curved like a dome, nothing to do,

I should’ve – I should’ve –

in one of those closing moments,

one-sided, and all of your stones

all stacked in a row,

let’s go on for a while.

alright, just not too far,

they keep me awake, I know the day

will be hard every day.

these stones, not yours,

I tell you no more, with contempt

and scorn, not yours,

not yours.

April’s back in bloom.

a grassy grave where I

buried my dog who still wanders

in the fog of the frigid woods,

searching strangers,

sniffing hands in the

twilight lands for my particular

scent which he remembers good.

I have a new dog now,

she treads with dainty paws

over headstones, nineteenth century,

forgotten professions,

forgotten diseases,

with time, tragic deaths seem

to lose their tragedy.

and the strain is Sisyphean,

the colours are April back in bloom,

back in bloom.

and the strain is Sisyphean

as it all becomes abstract,

an antique fable, and the

blossom is nearly cruel.

nearly.

dull rain, it waters such pain now,

just a player on a stage at the

last act, in the last light,

procession of shadows whom death

had undone, death had

undone.

up, line them up, every coward

for reassembly, every able-bodied

husk for the war or the wall,

but always the gun,

always the gun.

and the strain is Sisyphean,

so many of them perennially

kicking scrap, picking bones,

pushing stones.

and the strain is Sisyphean,

the colours are April back in bloom,

back in