Long Live The Dog!
No! Do not say because their love
did not outlive the bare March
when it mooned full that it now
be called another name than love!
As soon say the dog groans,
rolls over against the peeling wall,
then struggles up and rolls again,
but is not, despite groans and long hairs, a dog.
Whoever said that June
would follow March knew bodies take claim
if throat lets the full stop outlast
the qualm that growls it back.
No mere lust but grave glove,
flung down and ignored until it flares,
and every finger flames its root
in heart’s choke and scalped visions both burn to die.
Twilight and evening star,
the coil and red last clutch of suns spent hard
to gorged land — till June quickens both
to sated peace. The dog lives.