Up there, in the brevities
and rifting cloud something
lures my eyes.
For this dog is a blacker black
than a slip moon night, but here,
on this morn, the dim prevails.
And the bending of wet leaves
beneath her paws wager green hope,
but they’re brown. I saw them yesterday.
Yesterday, before the rain came winter,
before this “now the sea plops”
from a rust split gutter onto an ice pick.
But this is what wanders
when a blacker black dog
is hidden in black.
This is what wanders
when wet leaves mute her paws
and I wait – for her.
But up there, in the brevities
and rifting cloud allured,
a dust cuts the night briefly.
And briefly, so briefly,
there is a moment assured,
but uncertain as daybreak – is a dog, an I.