Dearest my little
tough ruddy beagle—struggling, as you lie
sleeping, to scamper unprotected
through whichever autumn bright blazes
of tangled trails, so tight on both sides
with rectangles of huge alien architecture—
and snarling, unquenchable,
and fang-foaming,
and all red-eyed
after whatever manner of indiscernible
and patently uncatchable prey
which must lay before you;
difficult!—as it seems
to dream
as you're doing,
of such urgent
and such blood-colored things
without the use of a language;
it is precisely
because of this
that I desperately wish!
I could tell you:
how it's
unarguably—tougher!
to be your ragged old father—
having just returned home
after spending the better part of an hour talking—so hard
and at cross-purposes
to the saturnine and half-asleep face—of his
petite blonde barber.
