Not for the last time

There are questions I'd ask of my childhood.

Where is the dog buried. How did he get there.

How much more would it have taken to make

the toughest years snap. And in them, where was I.


I only remember the trap a growing boy

brought on himself, how right he felt, how hard

it was to be stuck in the younger phases of truth,

stricken dumb by a loud logic he couldn't hear.


But tear this backward sight from the scene,

it wasn’t all – it can't be all there was.


The house rendered to paper memories &

rent by the enduring trend of human passing


Where is it now? I ask you where is it?

It can't survive this single voice.