Porcupine

Where
the porcupine is
I don’t
know but I hope

it’s high
up on some pine
bough in some
thick tree, maybe

on the other side
of the swamp.
The dogs have come
running back, one of them

with a single quill
in his moist nose.—
He’s laughing,
not knowing what he has.

almost done
to himself.
For years I have wanted to see
that slow rambler,

that thornbush
I think, what love does to us
is a Gordian knot,
it’s that complicated.

I hug the dogs
and their good luck,
and put on their leashes.
So dazzling she must be—

a plump, dark lady
wearing a gown of nails—
white teeth tearing skin
from the thick tree.