for wsm
then he walks the blind dog muku
named for the dark of the moon
out to the park where she can smell
the other dogs and hear their
yips their puppy dreams
her one remaining eye is star lit
though it has no sight and
in its bright blue crater
is a vision of the world
old travelers who feel the way from here
to there and back again
who follow through the deep
grass the ruff of breeze
rustling her black coat his white hair
both of them
poets
trusting the blind road home
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