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Puppies see low.
No higher
Do their dreams go
Than the toes of trees,
Than the ankles of men,
Than the knees
Of nettles.
They aspire
To attune their tongues
To the taste of boots,
Their noses
To the smell of spiders,
Their lungs
To a kitchen breeze.
They know why
The worms coil.
They know when
The ants pause.
For them the cricket's prose is
A sonnet of fire.
For them the snails write
Sufficient laws
Across the seamed
And crumpled soil.
But they tire
Of their knowledge soon.
Their wisdom settles
At the world's roots.
Their eyes toil
Not up the rungs
Of light.
For them the hanging fruit's
Frail globe encloses
No jewelled spoil.
For them the late bird's tune
Is the song of a liar.
And of the flowery sky
The puppies know
Only the petals
Of fallen roses
That in the dung's
Foul quicksand lie—
Unseated riders
Of steeds undreamed,
Of winged steeds that fly
About the oblivious moon.
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Writers and Their Dogs
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