every day, second or third hand, the dog gets a new name:
"Bismarck" say, or "Windham", or whenever I peel a clementine –
the skin fragrant and loose as a nom du plume –
my lingering mind confuses the prerogatives
of gods and poets
right now she's "Walt" because someone said
to sniff the grass and that is for sure her dominion,
the adoration and open door of scent, and what she assumes
I too will assume, breathing atoms of the restless
and faceless tide
then checking her for ticks and tocks, and time's re-reading
of the leaves before they curl and fall and blow and I forget
what I most needed to say, what was meant as song now
more like the growl of a lawn-mower, the madness of wild seeds
cut down to size
Quickly Now
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qbit 
This was a fun ramble along Waltman’s avenue.
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Thanks!
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“Waltman!” LOL!
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Love all the sensory images here! Whitman evokes that, doesn’t he?
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Yes. Those opening sections never get old.
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The imagery Is stunning and your use of words is beautifully well expressed. 🙂
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Thanks! LOL!
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You are welcome my friend. 🙂
Keep writing and I’ll read and comment. 🙂
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A stream of conscious rambling quite like the distracted nose of a dog wanting all sense at once.
I think most days are like that even with some of our ‘restrictions’ lifting.
How can one walk on the boardwalk by an ocean and have to wear a mask? Makes no sense. Oh I suppose it does, but I long to breathe and be able to shop without a mask…
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