Ann Arbor Review
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At 2 a.m. Irish paces the hall.
I hear her collar tags when she shakes
and she shakes every few minutes
due to the fullness of the moon
my wife claims, and there is no place
where the dog is at rest,
not in her bed at the foot of our bed,
not on the couch downstairs
or in my son's abandoned room.
Maybe it is the moon pulling us
away from ourselves, an agitation
of the central nervous system. We too
are awake tonight and though we do not
pace the hall, we are restless
like the dog who cannot sleep,
and imagine a state of consolation,
a return to dreams: the silhouette
of Irish against a gray dawn dancing releve.
The poet in a lawn chair by the side of the sea
had been reading another poet, perhaps Neruda,
and since it was summer and languid, and he had been
reading a long time, he fell to sleep.
When he woke, he called out to his wife, to tell her
his dream, and when she did not answer, and no
one was about, and the house was empty and there was
only the sea, he took his pen and wrote:
The poem is always its own. It is true and it cannot die.
At our own death, from the chest, the treasury
of the poem, a baby white dove, invisible,
flies out to find its flock in eternity.
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