Even as we stand here speaking, death,
rushed along countless paths, stands
on our doorstep. You reach for my hand
and it nearly falls off; though you don’t
take notice, you are growing slowly
blind. Our skin folds to green, to moss,
much like my coddled, matted heart,
much too blind, perhaps, to see the black
and buckled dog, his hunched eyes,
his white and perfect teeth. I feel
the cold in my feet, and as the dog
cannot sleep, I cannot sleep. Remember
the slow mint and the cider? Yet
already the black legs stoop to drink.