Saturday, January 4, 2014

Two Poems by Taylor Graham

This crazy puppy, electrified
energy, wild; even after all the systematic
training, official by-the-book –
it was brick-boring: sit stay down heel.
She lost the nova in her eye.
It broke my patience, keeping her close
as a bad secret.
I packed her in the truck,
headed away. End of pavement, wild-
flowers past their prime, faded
like ruined puppies; stems of wild carrot,
lupine gone to pod.
I unclipped her leash.
She leaped feet flying, rapturous.
I called, she circled back –
dashed off to scout the wind-blown
world. Free as spirit,
the dog I didn’t know I loved.
47 ZXX:
title of my latest draft, as typed
by the new kitten.
Compared to the sable bitch, his black-
sheen coat is satin. Not so the pin-
points of his claws. He
puts her in her place. Yesterday
from the shelter, six
months old – already he’s seasoned
seaman of shifting tides
and space, the diverse shores
of homelessness.
What does he wish?
He accepts our random clutter
after the shelter’s scrubbed floor
and fluorescent corners.
He’s found a dozen spots
to hide in ambush; clambers from
paper piles to computer table,
makes himself cozy on the keyboard,
bats at images on the screen;
revises my poems
into typos, and vice versa.
What I wrote on Saturday is dead.

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