From Which My Dog Drinks
Small hollow half-sphere
of glimmering silver,
scratched and scathed from
years of use.
It holds it in
so carefully,
like a pair of angels hands,
only colder, glued together.
It twists and turns,
round and round its strange-shaped prison,
keeping the form of its captor
but
never
staying still.
A domesticated river
awaiting someones
somethings
hungering mouth.
Lapping up this poor-mans ambrosia,
it is satisfied.
This is my dog
and the water bowl
from which my dog drinks.















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