Notes On Waiting For The Dog To Find The Perfect Place To Take A Shit While Morning Cuts Through The Sky, Fresh From Another Darkness

perhaps on the crest of each stiff blade of grass hangs the eternal name of someone who was once loved but is now vanished

and just another name in an endless field of names

that is newly remembered with each return trip of the eager nose,

the trampling paws creating a frantic circle in the soft ground

in preparation for this most naked moment

the romance is always in the ritual before the ritual

how I pace flat rings into the carpet

on the days my wife is gone long enough

for her name to grow beneath my feet and stretch up the walls while

sunlight takes its final drinks from a cracked open skyline

but I know the words for this

for what it is to leave and eventually return to the space in a bed that is yours and yours alone

even after a lover has starved themselves with distance

how exhausting it must be to come back to this stretch of grass each morning

with no language to speak an apology for your absence

what it must be like to have nothing to give of yourself

but what has been consumed and then passed through you

a gift to show that you can still hold things inside of your body

a gift to show that you are not yet ready for burial.

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