8

By
I, watching the ends of the earth,
tight sightline, narrow path stops at an
unfortunate place, a spot well-built
for tripping and foolish, impassioned celebration

And back on the couch with that
thick, glass rhythm, you pick and replace
the bottle, swimming in the rainy day
given to the gray, taken with the storm

It is all I can do to swallow, hold on and
the frothy dog’s mouth cackles below
me, the knowing yearning in the yard,
straining, horse against the leash

He is dark, he is loud against the
dampening gray, his image is very
hard, strong among softer things
he rattles the steel links against the rock

All I have is you back there, in love
with the panes of that dirty window
and I have a suspicion that your bottle
echoes, drowns the dog’s brash bark





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