Poets know words, know routes, know ghosts.
Ghosts know hollows, know sorrow, know words.
Hollows know ghosts, know dogs, know weeds. Dogs know sorrow, know work, know throes of ecstasy, tides of hunger, the scent of other dogs, dogs they’ve never met, have haunted and been haunted by, leaving a trail, following a hint today, a scent tomorrow, a sign left long ago. Dogs know routes, know history. The scent beneath the tail they acquaint themselves with when they meet and store with all the others in their minds, they might not encounter again till months later, when they look to their owner with ears up and mouth open, but have no way to say, that dog was here, the one with the red fur, the distracted owner, the one we met that time on the beach… Dogs know silence, know loneliness. No way to share this encounter with their owner any more than the owner, finding in a journal the poetry of a poet met long ago, could share the pleasure of this discovery by reading the poetry to the dog, though look, he does prick up his ears. An odd poet, taking a winding route. There are some poets you travel the routes of so often you could feel your way in the dark, that turn, that corner, and then the plummet towards the end. What does it give you, after all, to meet in person in a room? A thought the dog doesn’t share, when, having known the followed route, the stored scent, an affair of the air, here is the other dog! Incarnate! Guessed and host!
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