I swim with dogs.
Buoyant at the same level over deep water,
I glance into their eyes with an intimacy only possible amid waves.
Their hair and mine, both lighter than earth’s blood,
could be a raft upon which we might heavenly-rest, protected.
The fate of forms paradoxically carries us to not here,
and, grasping whatever veins are nearby, I say;
“I love the moment,
at a standstill past the eye,
where the how of reaching is irrelevant
to the full-body pleasure(s) of perspective(s).”
Crooked boomerangs, askew,
are like limbs, but, unlike the shank of the thigh,
contain no self-impulsive desperations,
neither fluid nor osmotic.
Floating! – the conceptual globe –
reproduction – majestic!
Hands pause …. paws hand flaccid cones
to graceless sheens… and everywhere nothing is looking,
except as a flaw.
Outside may be the Grand Vile…
served as supper’s main coarse course cours coeurs coerced…
but exactly here-now, by a lake or a sea-stream,
affection can never drown when served as a wet dessert.