Click here to listen to Stanley Moss read this poem.
The day is a lion across the horizon,
the forests, a thorn in its foot,
it gnaws on hapless years, its stomach full.
The lion rolls on its back kicking the heavens.
The lion of Judah is part of its pride, its mate—
some say the favorite.
Furthest from the truth: the night, the universe
is a black Labrador pup biting
as if we were its mother’s teat.
Lear’s fool says, “Truth’s a dog, must to kennel … “
One day the mind will dream up an equation
for reality—I may grasp in my mouth
as a bitch holds her pup
or some, an after-dinner mint. It’s true the night
is the same for the sun, the rose and us,
I mouth metaphors for memory like the zoo,
put lovers in cages with primates and reptiles.
I remember a mother sea lion feeding her young—
balancing a spinning world on the tip of her nose.
There is still time to rejoice in it all.
The Irish say, over drinks, “The night is still a pup.”