The thought of barking dogs
at the center
of the intersection,
doing what they do
when the tires
are turned to the curb,
blunts the pure memory
of having hands
to direct us
toward what is clean
in the marrow,
serene
in the middle of a man-made lake
as the boat drifts without oars
to a shore
on a tide even
the scars of the moon
cannot disrupt.
It’s payday
all over the globe.
It’s a dog barking
all night
on the way home
from a friend’s apartment,
how the tires
sing on wet
asphalt,
my name cruising like the hiss
of a slow leak—
loud as a squeal,
then fading
as the words recover
their shape,
a dead language
beaten silent with a stick.
Dogs have heard me
thinking in musical alphabets
behind every utility pole
in the city,
howling at jokes
I didn’t know
I was telling,
yellow teeth
at the heels
of enterprise,
love comes undone
like the straps
of a cheap dress,
grace is rubbing
the feet
where all the dog days
have been lived.
I should say
I still love
every excuse
I’ve ever worn.
Every woman’s eyes
held green flecks
and blue radiance,
dances dogs
could bark to.
I brought scissors
and carpet rolls
to the prom.
Long limbs.
Index fingers
dotting eyes
on soft shoulders.
School lunches
dead on arrival
on paper plates
and plastic forks.
I love
every pair of eyes
I fell into
before I knew
the dead man’s float
or the breaststroke.
I’m still in love
with faces
I cannot see,
whose profiles
I trace
with every fingertip
while my hands
keep searching
for people
who need
a chaperone,
a mysterious other.
Punk dogs
beside the pools,
sleeping
on the clean towels
I brought.
Someone I love
is leaving town.
Someone I love
has left the house.
Someone I love
has left the planet.
Someone I love
has left the earth.
Someone I love
is with the earth.
Someone I love
is adding
to the future.
Someone I love
hears dogs
at her feet
and dances
despite corners
and wet paint.
Dogs who smile
insanely bright—
starry night,
halo,
or a phone call away.
Someone comes home
whose feet
are too heavy.
The nightcaps
are loose.
The bottles
clink together,
but no lights
come on.
Is everyone
still asleep?
Are you
awake,
dreaming of me
dogging it again,
or asleep,
watching me crawl
through the window
under the grace
of stars
and headlights,
spilling
onto the rug
like molasses
from a bottle?
The dogs
are barking,
and trees
are their address.
.
Ted Burke
.