After reading too much Charles Wright (7/80)

The kicks of dog dreams: chasing a fox that never was. His saliva spills out from his jaws and his paws gathers up the dirt of air as he gallops. "How imperceptibly we become ourselves." I could chase this--what I know is us: in this place, the absence of this place: immeasurable space: incommensurate emptiness. You are the silence between words: an unseen glance : recognition. Lost for space, for the hair between our paws, I can stick my snout into the opposite, to the bark of trees, the scratch of long reeds along a field in which we stand foreign making a void. What I know is untouchable warmth.