Wednesday, December 17, 2014

In the Image of Clay

Hind legs like a pair of raw pork chops,
you’ve seen the poor dog carting its rear,
its cellophane eyes uncontiguous to the stars,
the asteroid of its grammar, the comet,
a celestial fuzzball with its tail mooning the sun—
no sensible reason here, which is reason enough, 
its deficit of retention like a sitcom fan 
but as radiant as the bulb-bright of a child.
Dollop out gumdrops at the party
of live dancers in Manhattan. They, abundant
in themselves, mirror no notion of a Ceres
but the snort of the two-step from ancient insanity
that clogs even the toilets and fails the cart
dog who drags itself painless to its faltering corner.



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