canine circle

i used to think

poetry was a suicide

where the author

always reached

the end of a line

but now i think

it a rope

connecting all to all

where there is no end

just movement across

in a circle

a knot

sometimes around a neck

but often times

around a belt

to keep one’s pants up

for there are things to do

and poems to tie together

*

in every poet’s life

there is a poem called

the poem

that is not good enough

that reads sloppily

that uses the word sloppily sloppily

and that is hardly the poem

just a poem

a continuation of a thought

and a pause and a breath

that is often too filled with spit

and always a culmination of a life

that doesn’t read like poetry

*

life is

a cycle of 30 days

of eating and sleeping

that requires hope in

the 31^st day

to make movement towards

the first thirty

*

the dogs sing

their names in a language

i don’t know

and that they forget

angry and sad

snarling at the moon

for will there ever be night

full night

total night

where they can run into

hide

and find their tongue

without the embarrassment of view

and the hope of figuring out

what they are thinking

while chasing their own tail

and trying to maybe

i don’t know

feel complete