A tonic for the chthonic; for the loss of the dog I loved
some twenty-three years ago. Nightly she still
brings me to the verge of sleep.
But this is death knell for the ancient human fugue,
saying sorry then cutting up the mangled bits
of canine flesh caught in bumper cars.
This is the last aubade; the continent's shifting
and what's not solid or ethereal slips in
down beyond the angel of abyss.
Beautitudes from Hildegarde, tercets clabbered
out of Rothko's triptych of black
on black on azurite-black.
The guttural yap of pretonic Time,
my girlfriend. Her eyes are
Anubis, rekindling winter loves.
Stuns Philistines. The cão da Serra da Estrela
simps back on bloody sticks to shake
the world from her motherly airs.
Outside the cave, under the jackboot
corkscrew mouth of the sea,
the deaf adder shudders to see herself.
She guards the tinder box, she snuffles
at every door of pain. She is the frozen echo
of the silent voice beyond the grave,
which cries Nada. Hautboys in the hands
of Habib; the voiceless stop
of stuttering is what I remembered to forget.
Ear trumpet strums wholistically;
the shadow of St. Paul falls across the path
to Xotol's tree, where she has to pee.
Floods of sand the day David died;
we outdid ourselves at the burial of a mole
to hide ourselves inside of.
I drive and drive but I can't find the road
where she went down. Stunned,
I want to asp along the ground
where all the graves at night face Mecca.
She's looking up towards the well-formed
shins of La Manola, who also waits.
Last farewell -- no Roman aura or simplicitás,
only the rank pelf world of id. Another
scherzo for Anubis, who loves the dead.