The Density of Yarn

My dog is a nihilist,
straight up savage,
complacent enough
to stick pushpins in the ground.

He knows earth is hollow
just like his holes are hollow
and the promise of bones and
squirrel fodder is biblical,
mystic – mythic.

There is nothing here for him,
so we sit and make a tapestry,
stand up,
let it flow, but
it’s so heavy.

I am so weak
and dogs don’t have thumbs.
He barks at me, stubborn.
Thumbs are a myth –

We weave chaos,
making yarn from dirt
and nothing.