Dog Days

The sea that left this place

dry & chalky

ages ago

returns every summer, and

Billie’s singing from a phonograph

willow weep

for me

passes through the screened window upstairs

2 houses down, settles

on the ear

dense & languid as the air

when the pressure drops & even

the tao index is falling

heat waves in the eyes of

Cyrus the Dog

of Rhode Island Street

who lies in a heap

at the curb

on the seabottom

in the shade of a blue

Ford pickup truck and

Einstein’s brain nods in

an alcohol solution in

a jar on a shelf in

Wichita, Kansas

while the Local Dog chews

on the neckbone of platecarpus

are you Serious?

nothing to do worth doing
except the occasional visit to

the catalpa

sniff

lift a leg

sniff again

this is the life