Mark Doty

Beau: Golden Retrievals

Fetch? Balls and sticks engage my attention seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so. Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue of any thrillingly dead thing. And you? Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk, thinking of what you can never bring back, or else you’re off in some fog concerning —tomorrow, is that what it’s called? My work: to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving, my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,

a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here, entirely now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.

—Beau