Wednesday, December 16, 2009


A bowl full of black plums and tangerines
sitting on the kitchen table
in the red-gold after-glow of an August evening,

Half-empty tins of smoked oysters and sardines,

Pickled peppers, crackers and cheese

And a gallon jug of homemade ruebarb wine.

A sliver of purple-orange clouds

hanging on the horizon

(like a strong wind could come along

any time and sweep it away),

two poets, and a painter

(currently giving the guided tour

of his latest work)

and now the old blind dog

is moaning at the screen door again,

hoping to go out into the wide-open world again,

to be young and fast again, really,

to run wild with his wild cousins

who've been calling from the woods

all evening.

It's the same ritual every time;

he'll get as far as the tree line,

bark a few times at nothing

and wait for a reply.

Then, he'll turn around, dejectedly

(dont tell me dogs dont know dejection

or even some semblance of shame),

amble slowly home (stopping

once or twice along the way

to look over his shoulder),

then moan at the back door again

Until it finally opens.

And, eventually (after a good deal of serious

searching for something and sniffing around)

hell make his way

back to his favorite rug

at the heart of the house

and proceed, carefully,

to turn,



down the creaking spiral staircase

of sleep into what must be

his favorite recurring dream-

chasing something:




any and every other thing

that catches his perfect dream-eye,

through an endless green sea of wheat.

-Jason Ryberg, 2009

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