I love the chasms the dogs body through
the snow. First light finds excavators
hirsute and, needing to pee, hurrying
a channel they widen after finding sweet
relief. I was relieved to find myself
exempt from shoveling their path; newborn
child carving fierce demands across our field
of vision all the time, the dogs glanced
briefly at the baby’s scythe and saw
themselves outside just fine. No grievances
found in their bottomless eyes, I reinforced
their canyons intermittently, only
at night. The guilt their faces gave
permission to be cleared, avalanched.
Thomas Mixon was a featured writer at Mass Poetry's U35 reading series in Boston. His work has appeared in Rogue Agent, Plainsongs, Sweet Tree Review, and elsewhere.