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Stray Dogs in Fall

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The small white mutt of my
Unsure Self trails the masterless
Dog of the Dying World,
                        watching him
lope the endless block
of yards he knew before his
birth‚ . . . I imitate his muffled bark
& snuffling breath, as round   
& round
               we trot as one
through rustling browns
of the dying world.

               For it's come to me
now that a dog sniffing round
for the perfect smell, & a place
to pee
            in the chilly breeze,   
is the Rudiment of Life.

And, if so,
            the Poetry of Fall
is the dog of myself, untied
at last, from the Rope
of the World
               dreaming
he'll one day snuffle past   
those crackling heaps   
            of burning
leaves, becalmed by the scent
of smoky light,
Alone.

Source: Poetry (January 2009)

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This poem originally appeared in the January 2009 issue of Poetry magazine

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Stray Dogs in Fall

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