Doodia

By day I see the fine future—the ordinariness of fes­tivals, the house, gulping wine.

By day I dream of a real and good dog.

This is not the unknown and neither is a preg­nancy, a miscarriage, durableness.

It has been raining and the houses are up on stilts.

There are a lot of stray dogs and there is a sweet one we call Bride and we fed him and he went to the bathroom and I rushed to get some paper. “He’s all dirty. Clean him!” I said.

My mother laughed and she said, “They clean themselves on the grass!” I wanted her to clean him up the way she cleans me. It would have been hope­ful enough for me.

I do not know what to do. I do not know who to trust.