Thursday, August 17, 2006

Walking Dog



Dog knows
the why we dream the ways we do,
when night unfolds impatient senses
to perform the senseless rituals of light.

The once he glimpsed a broken chain,
the once an outstretched hand,
the once was sure the sucking oil
slurped back
beneath the shifting sand.

He saw my fingers
fret the pieces,
twist them round
to force the fits,
cast around
to find a pattern,
scattering illusive bytes.

Lost
in the forest of searching voices,
adrift
in the city of leaning towers,
left
in splendid isolation,
stranded
by the slippery hours.

Awake our eyes
take in a shattered landscape,
hanging, leafless, burning trees,
a filthy stream bleeds through the suburbs,
inhuman, sullen refugees, lost children
limping through the rubble,
faces fixed in black and grey.
Each one frames the awkward questions -
Is logic hidden in starvation?
Can Death reason man to man?
We’d rather eat then sleep
than search for answers.
Let others find them,
if they can.

And knowing this,
on dreamless days,
go Dog and I,
blindly howling
at a glowering sky.

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