Saturday the 7th

All the ghosts of the dogs
Afraid of thunder hide

Under the bed. The bed
Is not on a frame, two

Thick box springs on the
Floor simply shoulder

the mattress like Atlas,
or Sisyphus maybe:

Every night they roll us up
The hill of sleep and every

Morning we wake and crush
Hours of dreams into oblivion.

Underneath even that there’s plenty
Of room for the terror of loyalty.

I’d like to think the dog
Ghosts are what

Wake us up. They are more
Important than dreams

And they are afraid even when
There is no thunder, like today

There was spring snow, so light
That after hours it had barely frosted

The twiggy ground cover still waiting
For leaves. Under the box springs

The dogs shiver. The snowflake
Shatters like glass. Something left

Outside in the storm moans like
It is not the wind, after all.