Me and My Dog

Haunting solitary city-dweller’s ruminations bring to mind Blake, Rumi, and Whitman. This poet’s dog waits for her owner to finally return, again and again. In thundering steps on the street’s pavement, linked pantoum-like lyrics meditate on the nature of existence from apartment views.

Review

. . . . every day details and language of death become a means to both witness and revel in how we live. The result is breathtaking work, simple and profound.  
—Donna Cartelli. Me and My Dog. Poetry Project Newsletter. February/March 2001

Excerpt

You were sound asleep. I laid my hands on your face
The drugs were floating beneath the surface of your skin

The dictionary I had on my shelf is still on my shelf
If only I could touch the floor with the palms of my hands

If you sit here long enough you’ll see everyone you know
We are merely crossing over into another season