in the distant end
of the smoothsided passageway of dreams
I see ascending the rough stone above
the marked clay floor, turning upward,
the great dog chasing the stars, heavy snout
of charcoal, dark condensed and deep, pointing
beyond himself to the dome of the underground sky awash
in rivercane burning stars. returning and returning,
still I cannot hear, his baying frozen in the limestone.
what does he have up
that world tree growing from the broken
earth up to the mountain above, drinking
of the endless river pouring from the deeps?
I float and turn in the soft mud womb
enclosed in the hard jagged body of the land,
I have passed into it and it into me. I
listen for the baying of the ancient dark dog
chasing the sea of stars century after century on end.
the waters rise to meeting, flow in, and out of dream,
awaiting an awakening, emergence into the light of day,
remembering what waits in the dark.