two poems by naomi

one -
the art of disappearing

when they say don't i know you?
say no.

when they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
then reply.

if they say we should get together
say why?

it's not that you don't love them anymore.
you're trying to remember something
too important to forget.
trees. the monastery bell at twilight.
tell them you have a new project.
it will never be finished.

when someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
when someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
you will never catch up.

walk around feeling like a leaf.
know you could tumble any second.
then decide what to do with your time.

two -
dog

the sky is the belly of a large dog,
sleeping.
all day the small gray flag of his ear
is lowered and raised.
the dreams he dreams has no beginning.

here on earth we dream
a deep-eyed dog sleeps under our stairs
and will rise to meet us.
dogs curl in dark places,
nests of rich leaves.
we want to bury ourselves
in someone else's home.

the dog who floats over us
has no master.
if there were people who loved him,
he remembers them equally,
the one who smelled of smoke,
the one who brought bones from the restaurant.
it is the long fence
of their hoping he would stay
that he has jumped.

                - naomi shihab nye