That running dog across the span of tidal flats,
he’s all we see against the sheen of sliding water.
He could be a Poseidon come ashore,
pulling a sea-cloth from the sea,
his muscles bringing buoyancy to
what passes for fragility on the isle.
The sea remains his oracle, the sky, his sky.
The air expressed is his last gasp.
His breath is running cold.
He runs so fast he must be lost.
He looks at us like we were candy.
There is blood on his belly and back,
still wet, still coagulating. I’ll have
to wash my hands of it when I get home.
This poem offers omniscience of a sort,
like the sky offers blue, like the air
offers a vacuum once you leave the plenum.
It offers a dog that’s running in the sand.
It turns his running into the tides that might
spring forth into the earth’s new engine.
It offers Aphrodite to an antiquated star.