Summer 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2005 |

Up Late, Reading Whitman

whose soul was like a spider, but was also like the grass, and the meteor, and the beach at night, and I would be honored if my soul was like the neighbor's dog who tunneled beneath his fence today, black-eyed, wagging, unclipped toenails clicking on the sidewalk, all thick tail and barrel chest and neck fat, searching the hedges for the scent of foe, the site of relief, for a long-lost loping collie he might have known once when the day was all sun, and the eternal tennis ball barely touched the high grass, and the squirrels couldn't help but admire his splendor, for happily did he slobber on the sneaker and the hand!                                                   *** My sister who is a young girl again brings Walt Whitman to the party in the back of the house. She is so proud. She has kidnapped the poet and brought him to me— he keeps snapping his fingers, h

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