Day 19.

One Response

1. The Poem Comes as a Dream

   Unremembered
   even after the preparation:
   the good scratch behind the ears,
   the clawing up of bedding into the right nesting shape,
   the heavy flop down into its folds,
   the closing of the eyes.

   And in the deep part of the night,
   the poem comes, a fleeing hare
   chasing through the mind,
   its swift feet drumming the right rythm,
   and by morning it has vanished.

   Only a satisfying smell of flesh remains
   in the dog’s mind.

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