The dog at the heart of the world
by Gail
The dog at the heart of the world
wants bones to gnaw and dirt to bury them,
warm meat torn from a well-toothed
carcass, room to sleep when full while
the world twists around his fur.
He remembers the world's beginning,
when rock pounded in around him
to form the wall behind which he
still lives, but barely his own past,
a blankness in his mind where the
heavy river flowed, the overburdened
ferry always in use, the tall man
with an abyss for a smile forcing his muzzle
into the water until he lapped it.
He lives on the promise he was made,
his purpose chiselled into the walls,
that all murderers, thieves
and liars belong to him,
their souls his bones.
