Wednesday, August 13, 2008

My Previous Dogs

High-up at the vertical limit of sight, caught on a flake of rusty guttering
hidden in the leaves of a Californian walnut,
pressed in the middle of a waffling summer (despite this weather), diphthonged
at a flange in the upper-register,
flayed at a paint-crackled curl in the canvas
alone in an attic like a cork on a gene pool. But who now has attics?
Who can see further than the term of their years,
past the landfall of mornings when you’ve just woken up
from the Valium of three am? Derek and Brendan
are laying the sprinklers, piling up the lawn down the side passage.
Who can afford professional gardeners, standing here
in the graves of my previous dogs? Without a network
of skills and friends and capacious fridges that pack
air into zip-locks, the afternoons
would drag their ballast of marine-life an entire octave along the guitar,
into slack-key, hitting a pitch too high for humans.

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