Fluffy in Heaven

From my cloud I can see Spot run,
An inverted flailer, his shadow threatening
To throw him from earth. How strange now seem
The old chutzpah and pain, the cockeyed puzzlement
With which I once read the I Ching
Of my vomit. Spot’s single-mindedness
In shuddering for the stick Dick holds
Seems proof of predestination, while,
Like an anonymous patron, Jane bows
To fill his bowl, some ichor of love
Or bemusement in her veins driving her. Yet even she
Seems limited, unaware of the dinosaurs
Galloping through her blood,
Of the giant purple termite falling horribly
Through the world, of the avalanche of skulls.
I detest the desperation with which
That blonde snazzy poodle clamps the stick:
Yet he believes in his muscles.
I want to bark to him of amoeba-light’s
Multitudinous ripple, of the hiss
Of spirochetes—dull, imperceptible,
Yet filling all; I want him to know
The point of the bird, the blunt object
Of the turtle, the gravity of the stone.
But Spot keeps simpering, clutched
To Dick’s leg, and Dick keeps waving
That crooked wand, his hostage for affection,
Both of them aching, like all mortals,
For ownership, mere new configurations of matter.
I am not like these three.
I will rise through the atmosphere,
Letting them ignore their earth.