What Sustains in This Autumn Rain

It'd be nice to see a stray dog limping along
the sidewalk. So you understand that sadness
is not original. The dog curls cold in my mind
as an unlit wick, which you refuse to kindle.
Here, touch its waterlogged hair. The dog
won't bite, the dog is not looking for a bone.
But there is no dog, you say, it is just a puddle
in the middle of the road which I have mistaken
for a dog. Sometimes, pain does not acquire
a form. Sometimes, it is all right to cry
through another pair of eyes. The dog is there,
barking blue, its whole body a torn fabric
Wringing in rain. Now you can see what I see
the stray dog is happy, happy without any bones,
unchained, chasing after his imaginary master.