Fable
(or Doggy Dancing on the Precipice)
It is an arching
Of sinew, a mammal
Maiming of wind, this jack
Rabbit blurring of time—
Quick rushing of flesh
And dissipated dust.
It is a tortoise of time,
Slow lumbering
In loose universes—
Shell patterns
Revealing stories, storms,
Careful encodings of stars,
Translucent memories forever
In minds
As we hobble to finishes—
Rings of living
Lost inside ancient oaks—
Quickenings, haltings
Into the mighty yawn,
This timid place
Of past and passivity.
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