She would come out of laziness
Wading through the moat for us
For visual contrast for cameras.
She finds her own white boring
In a bleak brown zoo enclosure
The green water may liven it up.
We try to reason need for white
A setting apart sense, idle king’s
Sylvan fancy or a wild life love.
A white tiger might have begun
In woods not for its tigerliness
But color change for king’s eyes
Bored with a golden brown coat
Burning bright in Blake’s poem.
Fog in the throat was exemplary. When we faced a severe dog on the street we had such fog in our throat. But fog in the throat was like mist in our eyes. That was no big deal of a word assembly, unless it meant something from the dog’s side.Yes. If we had fog in our throat , the dog had it too.
So we have today’s poem , where both I and dog have fog in our throats:
Fog in the throat
At times there is death’s browning,
An experience of the fog in throat
A chemical stirred by a stray dog
Smelling our death in casual walk.
The dog is sniffing his own death
Barking head off on our intrusion
At a death walking in on two legs,
Trying to fight a fog in his throat.
The winter is now here
To the old fogged mind
Not a knife cold of snow
In hills of silver and sun
Cloudy from tea mouths.
Mind steps into a winter
Of a pale ghost it is now
Crusted with white years.
More than ice it is a fog
That makes up its mind.
(Referring to Wallace Stevens ‘ poem The Snow man)
The zebras tend to smile after the act
And at times before , in anticipation.
Their camouflage acts fine normally
As smiles are taken for tree shadows.
After act ,no difference exists in smiles
Between a zebra’s and its predator’s.
We pick our fire and hang it
And wait for a layer to open
Below a green patina of light.
There is September in a rain
And doubt lying in a corner.
There is an unresolved smile.
There is rain water gushing
By a broken wall in a house,
A lake in the garden of dog.
September things hang fire
As they do in other months
And other nights and rains.
Now I am a small tree,
Rooted in a plastic pot
I am a tree in balcony
Not crossed a parapet
To all that dizzy space.
I am rooted in plastic
And angels do not call
Balcony after nightfall.
There are light elephants in that cumulus
And elephants fly like heavy in the wind,
Wind blows words to turn a cat language.
Cirrus is mere language with no thought
Floating in an empty sky of feral nothing
And heart turns a mere cumulus floating
On prankster wind to the vacation’s end,
A Monday to float away as we come to it.