THE DOG'S GLANCE

Suddenly, as I work, eat, walk,  I encounter the dog's glance.

It interrupts me like two leaves of a tree inside a wound,
like the infantile weeping of a soul that hasn't yet been stepped on,
or of that old woman who, in contrast, scrubs the floor on her knees.
Because it doesn't know how to be resigned, and stealthy
and supplicant —because it doesn't know that it stays resting on its shore—
it leaves me interrupted like a small Romanesque church in a village
or like that rock and its crevices on the side of the shortcut while I continue climbing.
(It leaves me among my elementary texts and I enter,
naturally, studiously united with God in the time
of the imagination still mixing up Bécquer legends with insects).
Or it pierces me with its trusting creature's fear and its excess
of happiness on seeing me (who am a little tough and don't deserve it).

The dog's glance.