Friday, January 30, 2015

#2

A clumsy, loose 
andante—
trundling forth,

first to sooth—
stiffness;

Lucy and me—eventually smoothing 
out and 
walking more

mildly, despite 
the sliver 
of cold white sun—to become little

more—than a pair
of keen and 
clement noses, honed—

eventually—
to mere aspects 
of a single-

pointed thing—ferreting
only for that 

dirt-simple pleasure—
some delicate bit 
of earthy tenderness—

the perfect little spot—

so much the harder 
to sniff- 
out in iron weather.

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