A Black Dog as a Creation of Rainy Nights

A black dog sits under an arched bridge at night.
The sky was of obsidian hue, and raindrops pitted
against the scarred earth and dripped, dripped
as the seraph's tears undulate through pensive thought.

They dripped off the edge of the bridge
and onto the mane of the dog.
The dog sits arched as the bridge is arched,
the earth is curved and the earth is arched.

Both the metropoles and the forestry
are coated with a sheen of lustrous colonnades.
The pitter has ceased because the mixture can get no wetter,
yet the patter is the churning of the batter.

The dog raises its paw, and the patterns of the rain
change and swirl exquisitely, like insects.
He moves his matted head right,
Arched like a preacher who preaches
in a land that must be defined,
and catches droplets on his tongue.
The tableaux of the facade is altered again.

The abstraction breaks with the storm.
Black water shaking, night flowers of vermilion
for the taking, and the mind, the mind
of the preacher aching, the farmer,
the farmer is still raking, for this is all
all of the black dog's making.

The laws of chaos and of weather,
brewed with sound and sketches,
form the pinnacle of man's trepidation.
The most peculiar result is one
where seem seems to be.
That is why the vacant underpass
can be filled by the contents
of the foyer of the mind.
The moonlit subtlety can only
distort the haggard specter so far,
for distinctions in clarity are not
formed by the blink of an eye.

The dog is a concrete metaphor to the
thousands of singular men
who press their faces against window panes
and admire the sweeping downfall.
A fig tree in Luong Prabang rustles faintly,
and the dog turns and walks down an empty street.
From his mane an opalescence glows,
fueling the candles that burn in the houses of many men.