D. consciously left temporarily the death idea kept
as dogs in houses. Phenomenal D. did. Who could
fathom it on a scale of empty? Nothing fit.
D. on a cliff above the Pacific, dog close by dead
certain while D. with nostalgia returns to the precipice
drawn inescapably as he meant to keep the dog
housed in plywood with a door that said Dog.
Count. You’d think you’d get somewhere. But no.
D. doesn’t count, period. D. tethered to his dog
knew any way was stripped of sense. And if
you find the Pacific symbolic, it’s because you too
know a dog’s house. And maybe want out. Then
be careful walking to the edge as D. did with his dog
barely. Be satisfied as D. with his kept dog is.
LYNNE POTTS is the author of three books of poetry, two local histories, and numerous freelance articles. She received the National Poetry Review prize in 2012 and is poetry editor of AGNI in Boston.
image: Paulus Potter, Wolf-Hound, 1650