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“Truth inhabits us through dynamic loops of belief and doubt”
(Elizabeth A. Povinelli)
Whatever we meant by “world” – my dog named Mondial,
from the French—became less than lies, more than facts,
something on the order of rivers and regions. Accident,
the last hope of the multileggéd, the scuttlers
and scurriers whose humor kept a world whole.
I do fly with the flies at times, the honeybees and
the butterflies: the felt world the feeling world (too virile,
that word) the furious wisdoms disengaging and vaporous:
if you must know I am sitting in a library and the day
is cold but the sun does shine through glass and voices
keep me company when my greatest wish is for other
kinds to welcome me, to beckon as they pass.
To market to market to buy, home
again home again jiggety jog. The pig in the wild
makes her home each night each morning renewed;
“root” is such an interesting word, such a warning.
Brother hog, accept me; sister rock, accept me.
I worship now the tree rings in petrifaction,
the telescopic process geologic. I face the loss
of face in the home, the lying down among it all.
My neighbor’s dog’s name’s Milo yet I hear her
say to him “Here, my love, let’s walk together.”
I choose the error and train it for my pleasure.
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