Kingsley is alive with life, a puppy and a world.

I will stroke him senseless and he will be my hand,

a smiling horizon of fluff with a collar of dawning blue,

an extravagant Fibonacci tail of promise. This dog has

small Tourmaline eyes, I don’t know them yet but will-

that’s what they’re for. I will learn how to play, steer-

in the middle of the night he will swish round the house

like a silent boat. His tag will merrily ring the hours,

the hero of a larger dream. Soft and found, a Christmas

dog for life- he pulls the sled. Noble, he will trot

through the years, his tongue kept shining best

for the child that never comes, bright river in a garden,

some halfling coming home. He will eat up old shoes

and knit me boots to stride dark mornings hard and

chase the marsh, the wobbling reeds. He’ll race

the rain and crash through bracken, sponge
with paws like hooves that cleave the doom.
Watch this dog explode in droplets- a small silver
spring at a fairy-tale ball. Bear out of starlight,
our doglet- the best goodest boy of them all.