Dining Room
Our arugula a leaf pile on my plate. Or placed here and here to mark this:
Lapping sounds. The girl-dog pivots her ears, wags her tail backwards.
The ice cube hits the floor.
I could swim out to my mailbox and then swim back. Stay.
From here I can’t see the cats’ hearts. I used to, when they were small.
The dog sleeps, unwanting sleep, her eyes yolks, lids, yolks, lids.
Look at me slightly mapping. To get here and here to circumvent this. Sex on my plate.
The dog collapses. My heart kicks.
But it was not a cry it was the garbage truck, wet brakes, crying again at the stop sign.
(The cats with the invisible hearts are fine.)
Light makes the corner a light. The cuckoo clock births a turquoise bird.
The ridges of a dog spine kiss the circular rug, her heart blinking: Open. Open.
The cat rigorously loves her shoulder with her cheekbone. Look: love.
I don’t want to hear again about the dead horses. My dogs, what if. Quiet. Radio off.
