Whine
Whine I was a simple puppy til this simp took consternation for a verb, imposing bark for the idea of a bark, for other worlds uncanine (ideated fool)—for angels, furies, demagogs. And yesterday I saw a rainbow locally inset spring into lovely motion, fade away. (How far am I from mutterhood, tell me, my canny papa?) Day dogs down its lengthened paws stopping at every memory. But I forget. I need not write my name on each obstruction, sniff all those excessive boundaries— this lawn’s enough, the universe wells out at each expansion of my breath. Tenting tonight in the poppy realms of pap and poetry and whine bones touched with frost bark backwards, and the skies raise their weak candelabra, or the moon poaches its course from yard to yard, touching the shells and husks of trees with the loneliest smell I recognize. All this theatric glory for a dog! But not for me, for the idea of me, one I have not yet my teeth in, but I hear as from the rumblings of the road that moony fragrance dissolute, dissolving, stir my spine, familiar and unknowable— not me, and, please, not for me, yet. The Poetry of M. Travis Lane / 25 ...
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