I sleep, warm, under
its soft scattering;
breathe it, wear it
on shirt and trousers.
Sometimes I wonder
how much of it I eat;
how much becomes
this tissue, these bones.
It is everywhere, placed
mysteriously as God,
woven into life without
knowledge or understanding.
Sweeping it from my pillow,
I have even cursed it;
but I think it will endure.
The other night I held
a long, pale strand to the light—
not black, like yours—
a memory of the dog
who came before.
