Almost (but not quite) like
a Renaissance painter
who has masterfully hidden his
face somewhere
in every Last
Supper or
Agony in the Garden,
Sometimes I think there is
a little lost dog inside
everything I write—
perhaps a scrappy black-
and-white terrier named Richard
who goes searching all night
for that one signature
door frame he knows, combing row
after row of my odd
bumpy prose like
cold cobblestones
in the alleys of a hamlet called
Hyrule Castle Town
long after the market bazaars
have closed down and his owner—
a plump moon-
faced woman, whose name
might even be Mamayu Yan—
has returned home alone
to weep and pace worried
infinity symbols
around the stark wood interior
one of my many
flimsily-built medieval
slums of a stanza.
