Sharp By Robin Wyatt Dunn

Sharp dreamt, daydreamt really, in his master’s lap, or his master’s friend’s lap, they were much the same size lap. He dreamt of a distant wood, smells impossible to resist, a river he had once seen, in a dream, far away brightly shining, terrifying really, thrilling.

For in adventure is the cousin swept sundered from our breast, for what now remains? Only within.

Only within, or into orbit, are the worlds now for us, yet —

Sharp is running.

His master’s friend too, has sensed the moment, has seized it; they are running together.

What is it to move into the new valley? What terrible embrace of love yet reborn extends even now into our ancestral memory, into the dog’s mouth, into my hand?

His fur is warm and sweet, and so is my blood, set to run at a fecund time, a fertile frequency, on the long run out and the swift run back, for all exits are entrances, baby —

Sharp needs to know, or wants to know, just what he is missing. Just what he is missing out on.

Beyond the door, beyond the yard, beyond the end of the street . . .

Out into the world.

Bark Bark.

I who am not a dog am close enough, for I too hunger for the unsniffed breeze, I too wonder, what is beyond my yard? What is beyond my gate, down the road, out into the world, behind the sky and all that’s mine and not and what’s why, when we have smells, running us under each other altruistically expressed as man-dog, running, running, under moons and skies, each wondering why each exists, and not the other, first or last, an aegis painted and at thirst, for our deeds of glory, or at least something worth barking at, our aegis hungers for our souls, we must broaden them with our accomplishments, our stories, so musically inexpressible, as a breeze, filled with thunder, like the dog’s laugh —

Harf Harf.

A small dog but big dreams as I am full waked in my bier, O in my bier, my dog, come so we can clasp the last thing we may know —

Each other,

But no bier yet, I seize the dog and it scowls, laughs, we are walking, a sort of a walk but more, more of a fever, show me wherein whereout who where and when for what in which and all the presences prescient and amazed, my laugh and my tongue, the state and grace of suns and sermons on a droplet of moisture on the grass, this sermon is my thought, it lasts only a moment, like the feeling of thunder, long before it has arrived —

Each other, yet:

Each has arrived a beating heart made serious and worth within the barking goodness dreaming afternoons, but what for? Who with?

In this barking dream what reasons meant after the season’s aftermath are changing now and when? And what will happen next?

© 2014 Robin Wyatt Dunn

Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in The Town of the Queen of the Angels, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, in Echo Park. He is 33 years old. You can find him at www.robindunn.com

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