I imagine now you felt the scarcity, Like a word prematurely uttered on stage, Creeping to the edge of the cliff face, Craning neck to look down upon that swaying body of green, Its white and grey skirts pulling, pushing, crashing The fallen frame of your beautiful black dog Again and again against the rocks.
When a body hits water from a certain height, (Though water itself is analogous to grace, A receptacle through which things pass), And, though we look to the ocean as birth and breakthrough, That body will die on impact, It fills the fissures of that void.
I ask, where lies the weight of this story? On the cliff? In the water? Or the black dog? Or in the tractor and crane That came to hoist him back up from where he flew, So to be buried in the dark peat earth?
No, for me it is in you, As you stripped on the early-spring beach, Ran like a mother into the waves, Catching your animal in your liquid arms, And surfaced, you, dog and wave, Three graces dancing onto the sand.