This poem is taken from Stand 224, 17(4) December 2019 - February 2020.

Brian Swann Three Poems
The Dog
‘I have not met myself and I get worse
At trying to do that.’
                       —W.S. Graham  
   
I’m looking into the mirror that faces the window
in which everything flows back and forth, in and out,

one and another. I feel looked at by my own reflection
so I go out and look at a tree. Before I looked at it

it could have been anything. Now it’s tree-and-me,
Back inside, I turn on the radio. Turn it off.

I’d emptied the garden. Now I inspect the last
green tomatoes on a table covered with squash.

A crow calls through the glass. Another replies.
I rouse the dog, turn the radio back on. Gluck,

‘Dance of the Blessed Spirits’? I open the door.
Late autumn sun floods in. How far can it go?

Everywhere, until the moon is up, flinging bits
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