My dog has died.

    I buried he garden

    next to a rusted old machine.

    Some day Ill join  there,

    but now ,

    his bad manners and his cold nose,

    and I, terialist, who never believed

    in any promised he sky

    for any human being,

    I believe in a er.

    Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom

    ws for my arrival

    waving ail in friendship.

    Ai, Ill not speak of sadness h,

    of  a companion

    who was never servile.

    of a porcupine

    s auty,

    ar, aloof,

    imacy than was called for,

    ions:

    hes

    filling me full of his hair or his mange,

    my knee

    like oth sex.

    No, my dog used to gaze at me,

    paying me ttention I need,

    ttention required

    to make a vain person like me understand

    t, being a dog, ing time,

    but, han mine,

    me

    reserved for me alone

    all  and shaggy life,

    alroubling me,

    and asking nothing.

    Ai, imes ail

    as ogethe sea

    in ter of Isla Negra

    he sky

    and my

    full of tage of t:

    my wandering dog, sniffing away

    ail held high,

    face to face he oceans spray.

    Joyful, joyful, joyful,

    as only dogs know o be happy

    onomy

    of t.

    there are no good-byes for my dog who has died,

    and  noo eacher.

    So now hes gone and I buried him,

    and ts all to it.

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