A Year of Poems – Day 70

The triangle points south
floating in the magnet soup
sucking me toward something.
The hound sniffing by my side’s
tail points to the northeast.
He pushes me slowly to the left
in a silent argument with my floating triangle.
Is there something he smells in the cold wet air
that I can’t smell even though
the dew presses against my nose?
Cold metal cannot lie.
It will take me due South
which is where I want to go.
But the dog with the warm
prodding of his mass
urges me somewhere else.
Perhaps he smells the warm smoke
of a friendly hearth
or has some private rendezvous to keep.
Now he pushes harder to the left
nose pointing towards the west
and a sheltered grove of pines.
I turn my face west, resigned
My guide will be warm blooded,
my direction undefined.

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