dog: long sleeping
the afternoon: languid and couched
my language: behind the curtain—
throbbing into the screen door
cicadas at its back, mites circling its haunches.
what to say to the overcast hour? this moment
twilight was conceived and
I birthed a great mountain of worries.
maybe the city doesn’t function because some
people snore while others seize with anxiety.
who’s to say that night will come?
is all I’m saying. if we haven’t learned how
to talk to the ant, the sparrow, the lone black moth
who escaped into the kitchen yesterday, brimming
until my man cut him down with a dish towel,
then who can understand us? is all I’m saying.
no, said someone. yes, said someone else.
they were looking at the same thing. it was the
hot hour. fish were sold. lawns were mowed.
I didn’t understand the person typing this at the
kitchen table, biting her lower lip and staring
into the backyard. I crawled up next to her.
I patted her head anyway.