I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receeding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
–R.S. Thomas, "The Bright Field"
Nose blast, both
thing in the morning.
Acid old fellow
on my ground.
I know the one:
slow, moves through
here every morning,
signing my trees.
Bright day, cold
feet. Getting colder.
The grouchy one there
with my line, the one whose
smell I love best,
the one with such soft magic
in his hands, good cupboard
things, a voice that tells me
the only truth I need
or know, that one, mine,
he has me in his grip,
he will never let me go.
Evolutionary distance meant
nothing when I looked into
your eyes and saw no distance,
no distance at all.
I found all sorts of things
there, but absolutely nothing
in the way of distance.
There is something so repellently
human in that concept, something that
stinks of privileged conceit.
Is it so strange that a dog
could teach a man almost wrecked by
disgust for humankind to love again?
No, not strange, but marvelous all the same.
Just what the fuck are we?