Cadaver Dogs
Cadaver dogs, sniffing at the remains of the sun.
The sun, coming out from behind a cloud and screaming at me.
Me, thinking about how your brain is crani-yum.
You, trying to sleep despite your jimmy-legs.
Me, thinking about one night in a past before your influence.
In the rented house on the north side of
Chapel Hill – fittingly, off Airport Road.
I was in bed – with a warm body, but alone.
Listening to night sounds – some soft and dangerous, some not.
Meditation would be a good word,
except that I didn’t consciously meditate yet at that time.
I was dreaming and awake; like an electron pulsated through two slits,
or the trunk of a tree seen through eyes floating on the surface of a lake.
The sound, the drone, the hum, the vibration of an aeroplane’s engine – far off;
on the cusp of inaudibility, on the fringe of awareness,
on the perimeter of consciousness.
Entering at a moment unknown and uncalculable;
only known in hindsight, in the past, after the magic of the instant has dissipated.
Only in remembrance, like the momentary and transient splendor of the
carroty and crimson sunset behind vaporous, purple and billowy wisps.
Peaceful and sad.
Telling without any shred of knowledge.
The sun, coming out from behind a cloud and screaming at the cadaver dogs.
Me, peering after those remains of the sun.
