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To the Quarry and Back

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White hail pelting the frozen bog,
I’m stuck in the first line of January,
following my host’s dog
on his walk through the stone century,
around the quarry, slices of marble and mud,
past a herd of miners exhaling smoke,
past a barn smelling of merde,
and back to where I’m stuck and broke.
The fucking dog barks at the night,
mad at the stars all his life and then again.
I rethink kicking him out,
but being cool, I let him in.

Source: Poetry (September 2009)

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

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To the Quarry and Back

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