A dog I thought I saw moving in circles
on the sea ice, miles out—
the hour blue, persuasive, brief—
I’d have written about the light
if it wasn’t so cold or unforgiving
in the way it pewtered the branches
of elsewhere spruces blown clear
of snow. Strange the way we learn
to forage, and what for, even longer.
Star, sward, sword. Of a course
I have been mistaken: the soul knocked
open, rift and replenished. Between us,
in looking back: it was not dog.
It wasn’t anything.
“ANOTHER INLET” WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY ALASKA QUARTERLY REVIEW AND IS REPRINTED HERE WITH PERMISSION.