when all the dogs come out of their doors and point their noses at the leaving clouds
the superstitious morning will tell me where i should’ve fallen asleep last night
tell me my fear of disappearing has kept me from arriving and i should’ve
left my childhood so long ago.
but when the night comes and the cats duck out from under the porch to swing their tails
in the cool air and the branches of the dogwoods hang lower with no sun at which to reach
ive never felt misplaced, never carried this mortal heaviness so lightly and i am sure
that i am better off than a dog inside a window.
