Suzi Mezei

The dogs’ breath
cuts through cold air. You cannot meditate
when you are with them;
the leashes are umbilical cords
alerting you to every leap,
unspooled threads
attached to defective reels.
Tiny black noses
question the smell
of the world,
they inhale your afternoon,
those danglers of endless tongues
always stopping to stake claims,
the self-appointed owners
of trees, posts, turf,
the cursers of currawongs
and other feckless beasts.
They conceal you       safe
inside their pack.

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