Resting

I hear the wind. I have been thinking about hearing it. It answers more questions than it raises. It’s been so long that the spaces seem too big. If you move slowly each toad, tiny or fat, will leap out of your way, was what I asked for. Departures calculate immortal longings, tinged with the autumnal melancholy of impossibility. My dog’s jaw’s bolus just ruptured again and drained along his chest. I washed it from a lettuce clamshell. The meat is still resting. Think of what runs down a runnel. Look behind the pages of a magazine, the grass chases him down the hill and the knife gets picked up. There has been a death in the family. Slush hisses over the curbs and it should have been another limo, he said, not an LTD. I got the call; the quarters rolled underbed like a dog in a clover with shit tangled in its middle. Not a single better boy hybrid pellet came up from the entire pack, packed for this year, and so I wrote for my replacements. Sometimes, while I am sitting here writing, and my dog is lying on the Persian rug beside me, and we are listening, hearing the wind, the entire muscle of his body pounds the floor from his brain on down, humh. But in the morning, weeping is just wind. No one knows it.