The dog rolls over,
her belly a map of the world —
islands and continents
freckled on a pink sea.
Iceland soft and smooth
with fine blond hairs.
Polynesia. Sri Lanka.
On the inner flank
of her hind leg the Galapagos,
where blue-footed boobies
splatter the rocky headlands
with their Jackson Pollock
signature, startling still,
though he’s been gone
for 60 years now, never
aging, always 44 and bursting
with paint — only my hands
left to measure the turnings,
a splash of spots random
as cooking grease
and even now I hope
to learn the hidden answers
if I can find the right sequence
to connect the dots.

© j.i. kleinberg