As if there could be a world Of absolute innocence In which we forget ourselves The owners throw sticks And half-bald tennis balls Toward the surf And the happy dogs leap after them As if catapulted Black dogs, tan dogs, Tubes of glorious muscle— Pursuing pleasure More than obedience They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand, Sometimes they'll plunge straight into The foaming breakers Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence Toss them, until they snap and sink Teeth into floating wood Then bound back to their owners Shining wet, with passionate speed For nothing, For absolutely nothing but joy.
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