The Old Testament
There will be a dog, a great stowaway
on the dazzle of a Celt’s smokers cough.
All spasm and splint, a mollusc of sawn-off
sticklebacks for a brambly tongue, licking
bad days off the calendar. Dog, a corpse
wax witness of time, knowing all birthdays
are the death of what came before. Grannies
won’t care, they’ll make candles from him as they
exit through the gift shop. Dog, a party
piece messiah turning water into
Stella, an imp on the lip of heaven,
burying the dead as birds fly over
creation, passing between the slim lips
of traced grass where Polaroids of worlds sleep.
Grant Tarbard is in hiding from The Man, he releases new books by carrier pigeon, including dog (forthcoming from Gatehouse Press).