The dog does not know why it barks,
Or what it would mean to know why.
Ancestral instinct, buried in the blood,
Breaks out at the first hint of danger,
However innocent, however mild,
However warm I try to make my voice,
And the dog strains at the leash,
A thwarted wolf,
Protecting the pack on a winter night
A thousand thousand years ago.
But am I any different? Do I know
What old and serious blood moves me
To wake or sleep, or seek a certain food,
A certain woman, or a certain word
To finish off my barking little poem -
As atavistic, it may be, as his?
No comments:
Post a Comment