do not b other the beagle lying there
away from grass and flowers and paths,
dreaming dogdreams, or perhaps dreaming
nothing, as men do awake;
yes, leave him be, in that simple juxtaposition,
out of the maelstrom, lucifugous as a bat,
searching bat-inward
for a state of grace.
it’s good. we’ll not ransom our fate
or his for doorknobs or rasps.
the east wind whirls the blinds,
our beagle snuffles in his sleep as
outside, outside,
hedges break, the night torn mad
with footsteps.
our beagle spreads a paw,
the lamp burns warm
bathed in the life of his
size.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
