The White Dog

the white dog
has no eyes…he moves about
with the sense of hairs that never stop growing…
they swim upon the cold leafed ground, autumn
slow-moving as a shoe over the horrific landscape.
the set has no antennae. the sun has no existence. the roofs of our mouths have been
cleansed with ether and Clorox bleach. stop telling me I’ve found the secret.
stop moving with so much faux resistance, like you are part of the sea.
the sea is greener than your eyes, mouth, toes or power could ever be. it is
simple as
tuning the piano with a fork, the voice with the sound
of a knife taking rule of the apple and dividing its flesh.
the fish in its
bowl screaming for a dollar to be golden, the wife who dies slowly
but slower than her husband, and then withers away alone, the spider who
spins a web so magnificent and wide that she gets lost in it, the purring of a cat in a
dark bedroom in winter, the tea water boiling, the angel preening his wings.
over time, the landscape loses its surface. the
objects that were rolled into place are taken
one-by-one away by the sea. the blue characters of death become more abundant, and they
sleep in the empty fountain.
the airplane screams across the depleted sky, the helicopter buzzes like some
pigeon who has lost its marbles and flies into space, the same
man waits
upon the same bench day after day, smoking a cigarette, with a suitcase next to him. he can’t be waiting for his wife. he’s waiting for his dog to come back to life.