From the Fishouse

He comes leaping out of the closed door of my dreams--
a dark retriever, slick

as if he had just swum quickly across a river

and his name tags glitter
though nothing is written on them.

In the center of the living room he sits
and he persists
as flowers persist: a vase of the freshly cut

demanding in sunlight to be seen--
until I give up. Washing dishes,
pretending nothing’s there, when I look,

the dog isn’t there; he’s into the field, nose
to the trail of some circling

missing thing. I call but he’s off
instantly into the woods, where all day he drifts,

impossible to know, and does not get lost.