The dogs assure me: There are volumes of meaning — Life and death — And time; Past, present, future — In the scent of a rotting fish left after the flood, Or a trace of scat, Or the coyote, long passed, But not everyone reads poetry. I'm not so lucky, all told: The rich scent of meaning — Heady, intoxicating — Rises only from words And the way you rest your hands on the table.
Published in Civilized Beasts 2016