Bruce J. Berger
When this whole world was sweat smelly and poor and when we walked away the end,
when tears once washing my unsmoothed face welled but would not fall, when why
what where when who were weary of being, I packed up my poorest dream and cried a
silent non-being tear. A dog barked back up the same street we’d walked down, a dog
cried in whimpering weeping, the dog cried.
Walking down I hear the worm-worried cur cruddling a hole, and you take a hand in
your hand to walk a way together. I see a sound of toiled soiled night dark and
touching a silent sleep we slept, cruel game we played, for desire I sighed urgent
wantings to be one, and we came together together a wishing one of us in moistured
love I think you called it, in one our arm and body twisting mingled.
A saddened sick we slept together, hungerous crave to touch once more, once again,
once as before, mouth and being one, we slept. The night speeds away, too soon the
morning mourning call to come, and away we flee. And as we wake walk we seem to
drift, adrift daft dumbing we float away, and sleep we know a long to be we are apart
Alone, this four-legged lame feet and paw poor pooch he me cruddles in a sense. And
such innocence pure and poor he brends his white being where he dies. This dog
sickens his self-being as he fades, this dog grieves a ghost before he goes, the grave
gives the good of the wasted, he sees me he sees, and we know what waste, and I
move, lay, and died beside.