An Hour or Two

This is the world. Not the real
World, of course, if there is
Such a thing, just the world

As you are it, as you are,
Figment of profane imagination
And sacred apperception.

In the world, forested mountains
Remind themselves of fangs
With icy points. In the world,

Rollie the cabin dog, old white
Samoyed with trembling hips
And sharp, barky disposition

Trails you across the rocks
And giant driftwood on the beach
Fronting the cold, rhythmic lake

Of the world, where you swim
In brief bursts of sharp attention
Through the perfectly murky

Light. In the world full of clouds
That never move in one direction,
Only grow and vanish, you

Try to find washed-up treasures
That a comber would appreciate.
An hour. Glass. Sand. Char.