Your dog in my apartment: you've brought him
with you, and now that we're in bed, body to body,
I can't help looking at his soulful looking back,
pressing us for all our pleasure to unwind.
Such a collection of strangers between us:
dogs, ex-lovers, lovers-to-be who are already
rumors about my heart--where is there leisure
or roominess in all my thinking?
Soon you'll be flying to North Carolina,
or Utah, somewhere suddenly extraordinary
because it's where you'll be touching down:
dozens of new encounters then, spectacular
events about to occur without me.
"Be with me," you say, and I'm all breath
and bedroom lips, my day running out
with how many sweet goodbyes,
how many babys strung together.
On the slate roof, a steady rain.
Against the floor, your dog tapping his tail:
So many clocks this afternoon.
Such little time making so much noise.