Stray Dogs in Fall

The small white mutt of my

Unsure Self trails the masterless

Dog of the Dying World,

                        watching him

lope the endless block

of yards he knew before his

birth‚ . . . I imitate his muffled bark

& snuffling breath, as round   

& round

               we trot as one

through rustling browns

of the dying world.

               For it's come to me

now that a dog sniffing round

for the perfect smell, & a place

to pee

            in the chilly breeze,   

is the Rudiment of Life.

And, if so,

            the Poetry of Fall

is the dog of myself, untied

at last, from the Rope

of the World

               dreaming

he'll one day snuffle past   

those crackling heaps   

            of burning

leaves, becalmed by the scent

of smoky light,

Alone.