“the first face was the blue dog and the blue dog had wings”

the men hold the space
they themselves are infinite in their own hands
and the egg of their magnitude is blemished
I watch them take hold
assemble themselves in water with a break only at the lower heart
where no woman has ever been

the blue dog wished itself there
and appears in its photographed self
in only minutes he will untangle embellishments and solitude
the mouth of it settling into the men like a howl

the bowl of the earth is imagined and lettered
the hands of the men cup and fold
layer the dog with purpose and rain
measure him saturated and beyond touch
he earns himself a humanity they practiced in legend
and they say nothing to the calendar or the wood

a woman looks into the space left by the breaking of omens in a glass
no image can console her in the empty grace
in the lamplight she will surface like an eye
letting men read all there is to know in the mad night,
in the cool lining of her practice to become senseless
without feet, before density
and without the effort of rain or dream she inclines her head to the blue dog
whispers her breath on his,
tempera in her throat
washed and homeless she has something to say in the break of his teeth,
his neck, something critical in the harsh affection of his solace
she winds her blouse over his stance
his stillness a mime for her gravity
lift yourself up, blue dog
you are the leg of the dream

the men climb down her cheeks, her shoulders
chalk whittles through their climate and their dress
they model their soldier on the blue dog
who appears to them as a harmony draped with ghost,
a figure she has skinned and buried in a meadow where the men once spoke of waking
the branches of the men sway and cross
the head of the woman claims a name
both are too subtle for the factual heart
lift yourself up, blue dog
you are the beggar of elation

the blue dog rests in their temporary octave
harvests their etched hands in space
curls their loving with asps and wine
their moist insignia poised in his ribs

in the silence no one sees themselves birdlike and ready to cleave;
“I will be the woman in the hotel shattered by grace”
“I will be behind myself in fire”
“I will be body-like and full of holes”
“I will be semen”
“I will be crutch”
“I will play the note”
“I will create the necessity of she and he”
“I will relocate the pleasure of the harness”
“I will fathom”
“I will wait”
“I will craft”
“I will present”

nothing comes to survive them
they catalogue themselves in the hair of the dog
and walk as if to cemetery or god
the crush they feel from the weight of his brilliance is only momentary