January 26

January 26, 2015
by C
comments 8
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The night, still warm
enough to traverse

coatless, the moonlight
almost enough

to see by,
but the old dog

has gotten lost
in it,

circling
an apple tree

in the the corner
of the yard,

a thought’s thought,
that’s deja vu,

but every revolution
she turns

is something new,
her pale fur

faintly lit,
she starts to come

when I call
but gets called back

by some stronger
instinct,

it the scratch,
she the needle,

the song prolonged,
and maddening.

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