to my sick puppy at the vet's

[joel]

My dog is sick. My puppy love is pained
and naught can I affect his threatened state
for betterment except to let him go
as shyly I accept the edges of
my limitations: all poetic skill
is nothing now to scientific art.
But were my words and thoughts a medicine
to heal, what endless sounds would speak my sin:
My little friend, My early cousin’s heart
of architecture like my beating—will
you home to me again? You know I love
you, please, admit? I miss you too—and though
I’m not beside you now, don’t hesitate
to trust all love all mine with you’s remained.