Raisa The Dog
The poet of dogs has left,
and I am no dog poet,
having come too far with cats
to spend love on things that bark.
In my songs of lapse and loss,
ninth lives and midnight prowls,
the only howling thing is me.
Cats lie curled and soft,
on my back while I make love.
The poet of dogs has left,
of dogs and days and lovers,
cities bears wives children war...
His words of warp and woof
wrap each mood in its fit subject,
but now he has moved on-
leaving me, from time past time
a cat-man to the bone,
with all urges and no tools
to make this praise to Raisa,
sleek queen hound of these hills.