From the Archive: Robin Richardson (CAROUSEL 35)
We’re Just Beasts with Big Brains
Tipsy on the stoop beside a stone dog, faithful as the hurricane
that claimed his face. It’s okay. The sidewalk’s arching orange
towards a chanting patch of shrubbery; it chants your name.
Or does it state the ways of gods, or god, or something worse?
I have misread myself for years: open as an infant crow below the worm.
At my feet some German Shepherd, older than his owner, begs
to be embraced. He has your face. I don’t trust this path,
how cogent its ascent, how calm. I trust the tangle of its swan:
her skyward glance a spire, wingspan something one could worship
under, blundering as one does in new idolatry.