Watering the dog

Lying under the come and go of the storm

that's risen and harsh where we should not be,

it's hard not to think of days we charmed

love like a dog to lie with us, whining

for more of whatever we had, a pocket

of skin made so big we could hide in it.

What else leaves us sheet-wrapped, lapped

by all the breath a languid body has? When

out you tumble to shower off my stopped

heart's slack in its sack. Once we were young.

We'd coiled past time until our hides shone

red as if through the roof spilled the sun.

Still I hear rain gargle, the water on you sizzling.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Sep 1995
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