Every night since September mid
about this time, just this, the dogs moan.
We know someone enters, and that
we need not open any door.
My wife once told a weeper kin –
he can still chat with my mother
although he may not see her
sitting aplomb on her after-deathbed,
listening without expressing an opinion
for the first time.
That took care of our kin problem.
Every night when the wailing begins
we wake up, drink some water,
murmur about nothing, tuck the sleep in,
and the doors cease to exist;
their extinction seems foreboded; the dogs
howl silence, zephyr and constellations –
some are not physical at all.
Illustration Nick Victor