The sheets are filled with dog hair, but the dogs
are missing. All the doors are open. The earth
is rejecting the rain. Water tests our worth
through slow disintegration. All the cogs
of our lives have broken teeth. Nothing holds
its place no matter how hard you nail it down.
Water lips the steps. The sun scolds
us with its absence. Out the window, the town
stretches like a corpse no one will claim, and yet,
though the rising water smells of sulfur, and the phones
are severed ears, you wilt under the net
of my hands as if these troubles are our loans
on life come back to give evidence. Who cares what they say?
Even we don't know what we've done. How could they?