The nature of ice he learns with his teeth,
head down, biting and biting and pawing,
already suspecting that, underneath,
this hard cold slippery antagonist
is nothing but water, already thawing
itself, not like the shoe, the stick, the fist
he suckles and gnaws, true things which
resist --
for the world abounds in tricks and in
frauds
without mettle; even the ocean pounding
ashore, when he learns it, simply applauds
its own landfall, and he romps through a
foam
soft as kittens. So what is this, sounding
him deeper than any alarm, what game
with his soul? It happens every time
Susie plays her flute or Dan strikes the
keys.
His ears lift. Mozart. Gershwin. Waves of
air ring
out their icy dissolve and life's validities
desert him -- no earthly scent of the
chase,
no glimpse on the run -- only his hearing
to grasp these jazzy, spangled getaways
till he whimpers, then up with his head
and bays
out loud, astounded, the dog at a loss
while the great wonder of it is welling
up in his throat and assuming his voice,
and he sings! No, someone tells us, it's not
the music, it's pain, the pitch compelling
Brewster's howls to drown it out. So. And
yet,
who knows for sure the nature of duet?