Blind Dog

BLIND DOG

It is always colder than it should be
at 3:30am on a spring morning,
huddled in my tired Toyota
on the edge of your wide driveway,
under one of your majestic trees
bathed blue in the moonlight.

Too sleepy to even stare at the stars
that stare at me,
like your old blind dog
lying in the rockery
thumping its thick tail,
and watching me
through white opaque corneas.

Seeing my every thought,
as I close my eyes
listening
to the engine's drone,
the heater's hiss,
and the song of the nightbirds
hunting and dying
in the half darkness.

My mind is bristling with beasts
and cherubs
doing battle
with sharp dandelion wisps
that fall quietly in the large white room,
like ghostly flaxen feathers
settling on our damp shoulders;
thinking
of the fullness of your lower lip,
the classic configeration of your mouth,
the smell of your hair,
the sensational softness of your skin
and the tiny sparks that ignite
in my thick wrists
when our fingers touch
ever so slightly,
while we read Raymond Carver poetry
to each other,
hardly hearing
the classical piano's murmer
from those fat hidden speakers.
That musty music is not able to pierce
the passionate patter
of our words and glances.

For a moment drenched in stardust
we appear as the stag and doe
in a Disney dream,
leaping over logs,
hardly touching,
yet embracing the very air
as our sleek parallactic bodies
pass through it.

But now
the oriental machine is warm,
the windshield is clear,
and I have to descend
back down beneath
the window where you lie
listening
to the rattle of my muffler
as I lurch from rut to rut
waving good-bye
to your silent spotted dog,
who is not sure whether I am
exiting or entering
his world.


Glenn Buttkus 1987