Dog gives us to the silly world.
From somewhere, he sits
observing, calculating,
pulling the levers, untying
the veins so
warming the bones.

He knows the light our bodies
conceal and concede
behind the foggy cataract
lens of old Dog’s eye.

He knows all the shapes
a triangle can make
pruning us to zero,
letting the light bleed.

We thank Him
the first mathematician,
for letting our gleeful words gurgle
and our lungs bubbly-darken with
ill-divined opacity. At last, it strikes us

like a cymbal if
we understood
anything, it might
not be funny anymore.

Zachary Swezy is a wretch and a liar. He skulks around Chicago most days.