Winter 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 1 Poetry |

Dog

We have a dumb dog in our neighborhood, Cross-eyed and mangy, running astray, Glancing aslant our walkers, riders, Deliverers, and dogs. His bark is a dumb bark, not to address But to reiterate: he races paths Mazelike across the yards to undiscover A geographic sun. Nevertheless on the way home from the office Everybody stoops to greet him, patting his dumb head, Determined at the tag of day and hour That he must be a friend.

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