Like a dog in years, a wet cold perfectly upholstered nose,
long body sleek curled up here before the fire, tissues abounding,
the command to let’s get small, smaller still, tightly wrapped up,
we dream warm everything a toy, and of buried bones lost to time,
as we will go too, run with delight, free form of muscled grace boundless youth,
being of the crisp crackle and glow of sticks we might have fetched burned away.
Nothing’s left, seven times seven and somewhat,
in the end to earth of the ashes to only ashes,
all dust returning to star matter, our endless dreaming,
ghosts of the real, so long a way away from home hearth and we were.
Lanning Lee 