Is This All the Gods Ask of Us

Is This All the Gods Ask of Us Peter Cooley that we admit someday we all will die? We o√er them that trifle every day. But every morning, stars against my face until they’re blinded by the sun at noon, I go out, half my belief dumb faith, my eyes half-lidded on invisibles but focused on my dog, scattershot mutt. He leads this blind man on his morning walk. I follow his tail. I follow the red hole allowing him his random defecations. Never the morning I thought I might see but only this, competing paradise, these gold rivets the skyline’s fastened with, these silver-embossed footsteps where I dance, these ever-changing weathers of my words nectar to me, honeys and ambrosias. My dog has never thought about his death. This is why, long after I am gone, his progeny, never aspiring to soul, will lead some other fool down other streets, who tells himself, that fool, imperishings lie either side, sheer beauty of the world. A world like the New Orleans live oaks a sheen on leaves we’ve never seen before! Since we have eyes to time our stay on earth, and feet to claim our place, our vanishings. prairie schooner http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

Is This All the Gods Ask of Us

Prairie Schooner, Volume 91 (2) – Aug 9, 2017

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 the University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X
Publisher site
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Abstract

Peter Cooley that we admit someday we all will die? We o√er them that trifle every day. But every morning, stars against my face until they’re blinded by the sun at noon, I go out, half my belief dumb faith, my eyes half-lidded on invisibles but focused on my dog, scattershot mutt. He leads this blind man on his morning walk. I follow his tail. I follow the red hole allowing him his random defecations. Never the morning I thought I might see but only this, competing paradise, these gold rivets the skyline’s fastened with, these silver-embossed footsteps where I dance, these ever-changing weathers of my words nectar to me, honeys and ambrosias. My dog has never thought about his death. This is why, long after I am gone, his progeny, never aspiring to soul, will lead some other fool down other streets, who tells himself, that fool, imperishings lie either side, sheer beauty of the world. A world like the New Orleans live oaks a sheen on leaves we’ve never seen before! Since we have eyes to time our stay on earth, and feet to claim our place, our vanishings. prairie schooner

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Aug 9, 2017

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