I am the dog's tree.
A dark presence,
a thin reality of ephemeral forms
and faint outlines,
put at hand before the call
of instinct and transient need.
A brief existence
for a glance that searches and surrounds,
and a nose tracking and stumbling.
Now I am oceanic column
that stands facing the keel pushing forward
among unreadable sargassos,
now the friendly harbor at the hour
of fatigue and rest.
Now the blurred figure fading away
between distance and oblivion.
Indiscernible.
Insubstantial and vacuous.
I am the dog's tree.
In the quietness of myself I wait,
raised, serene,
for some hands that may recall,
and some eyes that may open the brief breach
of that minute bringing me to the bonfire
of the world,
in an ephemeral moment
of being and time.
I am the dog's tree.
When I say that
a dog peed on me,
it is not a simple metaphor
for a stupid verse.
