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David Biespiel



Houston, 6 P.M.


And somewhere the weaving 

Memory of stairs to a room

I’ve never stood in. But,

The window I know—

The window looks over 

The evening, into the sunset-

Ochre air almost burning 

With spring, traffic like wind, 

Confetti of stars above the 

Night to come. And then, 

The dog, gray on blonde on

Yellow on white, resting 

Her chin on the blue 

Sofa under the window sash,

Her eyes lit like a mind cleared

Of a big idea, a corridor of grass. 

                    I’ve come home

To a dog every night of my life, 

Come home to the top step 

Of small, well-lit porches, and 

Street lights coming on, followed

By fast cars and the still-breathing

Shadows of branches. I think, for 

A moment, I could die on that step, 

And that somehow the dog

Here, and the dogs gone,

Are wound up to the last 

Shred of what once was me.

I think I should want that death—

The whole cycle of my time 

On this catastrophic earth gone 

Nose down to seed. 

But, there’s much to do yet.

Ahead of me are my own

Footsteps coming through the door. 

White bowl on the floor. One

More day winnowed, an hour

Lost, as when a body, year

After year, circles before sleep.




Devorah Baum

A. C. Grayling

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