Within the Previous Silence
All that clamor at the front door
merely a faint wind... no dog ghost.
The inactivity of mourning, bourbon,
your boots crunching old snow,
your false voice false-saying a poem
of wood-grasp, bone-chip-scatter...
or burial in blind-clutch volcanic dirt.
Each winter has brought dismay.
Dust from stars to tickle
or fall scratchy into an eye.
You cannot whistle or budge
to yourself any dispatched love.
What the hound left behind:
one unopened bottle of Guinness,
three hardly nibbled rawhide bones,
an unsent Jackpot, Nevada, postcard,
the name Wolf clawed into a carpet
with untrimmed nails that last month.
If tonight lasts much longer
your girlfriend will mistake you
for a men's store mannequin
sound-engineered to berate
every disinterested fuckhead god