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The dogs tell me it could be worse: I could be eaten by
oversubtlety rather than bold red or blue letters howling,

HOWLING! That word again. The dogs open their mouths to word me.
Have you ever dreamed you didn’t have a master. We dreamed
we ran down the gully to the river, but not without you; we
couldn’t leave you. I entered this desert long past the middle

of my life, knowing that I could only have what I wanted
on paper. Everything’s covered with dog hairs; shake them
off the illuminated pages, no they’re painted on, ocher, gold,
and black filaments. I stepped outside the city of Paris,
and there was sun on water in clear air–surely a dream.
The past loved you, though it didn’t know you, but

it projected itself towards my melancholy. Have I betrayed the past?
Electricity and laughter, taunting, are inscribed on this page.
The old house full of creepy scholars, walking all over
colorful decades, squashing them with large, ignorant feet.
Can’t you paint over their faces? Here is another

D for dog–a dog undermines anyone, whether it’s the
dog of death, or the dog of dreams: more oscillating
hairs, white, shaded with grey and purple; or thinly gilded.
D persecutes you with its sweet disposition. Yet I dreamed
that a mean man announced, in veiled irritation–for
the dog had been part of his power–The dog is dead. A new
dog will arise. Who volunteers to take charge of it?
A healer raised her hand; but so did others. Who will be assigned

to this office? Who can call Death to order, now that the planet
has lost its blessing? No one.

© 2010 by Alice Notley; reprinted with permission from the author