A DOG KNOWS BETTER Poem by Sibila Petlevski

In the beginning it is unclear to us that it is enough
what remains when petals fall off. The assigning of beauty
to the surplus becomes a habit that we don't know how
to get rid of later. Convinced that the falling off has to be
caused by something, we say it's the wind's fault. It might
as well be the fault of still fresh asphalt, if a dog would leave
a print of its paw in it, and it would be the fault of the dog
who managed to leave a trace of a casual walk, on condition

that there is contingency from which it is possible to separate
eternity. My hands are full of flowers and roots, said the florist
who looked like a retarded child when he said, just as
an Indian shaman would say, my hands are full of clothes that
the earth wears. We could buy and leave. We could buy and plant
the roses, stick one after another into the wet, black bitumen
to be guilty because the roots will never catch up. Even the dog
knows better than us how to mark the borders of its world.