Middle Winter [3]

3.
These hours: a slender volume of collected
Nightmares. Each one forgets the one before,

fades into the wall like a stain
the new renters of these cells will see

as matter remakes itself into morning,
and me. The sun fattens on the vine of sky.

I bend beneath the burden of the moon
on my back, unseen by all but my dog

and you, coaxing a painting from the piano
or a song from canvas. I heard Neptune tonight

has scampered behind Venus.My dog scratches
a dark rib and adjusts his possum mask.

The limit of God’s patience tightens around his neck
but he won’t whimper. He knows I’ll wake

in time to cut the cord with the almighty
and hear my animal spirit sprint away.