Near the bike racks, a dog
is losing his mind, thinking--what?--
that life as a dog
isn't one big bone, days are short,
and memory is a complicated scent.
Believe this too: everyone
is cheerful--it's April--printed flowers
all over their corny short-shorts.
Up the street, another stand of trees, and another
and another on that high hairline.
Tree thoughts, straight
out of the head, though a little redundant.
But nothing's really in leaf. Limbs still sway and creak,
twigs in the buff: the mind's
a genie in its bone bare socket.
The dog keeps at it--sniffing.
I see right through to his ribs, through the ribs
to the soft parts, all order and pulse--
of course, the buried heart
where all dark liquid begins.
Copyright c 1993 by Marianne Boruch. May not be
reproduced without permission.