Just came out of a walk by the river. I was walking the nomad’s hound.
Not mine, no. Mine’s a settled dog. And we crossed over the road, to
the river beyond. A fairly strong wind blew its warm breath from the
southwest. It played with clouds, hurrying them, hurrying them, white
sheep, bad news, not loaded with water, not a good forecast for rain.
The river slapped against the riverbank walls. Foam and lights
tonight. We were pushed along the way by our gentle friend the wind,
our extra fur, says the dog, The ocean loves the river in Lisbon, and
they were lovemaking tonight. Such concert of nature tangled us in. We
had to break the rules of a late-night walk, we had to, we did, the
dog says. We turned to face the wind and walked back all the way. And in
that moment the wind whizzed in our ears and we were face-to-face,
snout-to-nose, corrects the dog. That was god. As natural as god will
ever be for us, for me, dreams the dog. And we marched with our hair,
my fur, it keeps on talking, being pushed slightly back pursuing these
thoughts. Do you think this happened like these words here tell you it
did? No, not a bit, Every thing here depicted was taking place almost
at the same time; a poem that will never be written for it was too
intense, too fast, and alive, and the dog snores.
