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--- G R E G O R Y   D J A N I K I A N

There's so much dog hair in the car
that my wife's black skirt has turned
a shade of gray and
who would be happy about that?

And not just in the car! It's in the secret removes of our bedroom, along the busy stairwells, tons of it, I'm sure, under the refrigerator where even light must sometimes pool.

Always this feeling that wherever we are something else has come through before us and there's nothing to be done.

Oh the cleaning bills are mounting, the dryer is tumbling darkly! And my wife is looking in the mirror trying to brush away all signs of it.

And where is the dog? Out generously strewing the world with itself like a great thinker who cannot contain all his ideas,

sniffing itself out happily -- here I am, here I have been! -- in the narrowest crevice.

Something like our coming upon a name carved years ago in desk top or tree, or finding a notation in a book from a day when the sky seemed as steep as the future.

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