Picture me leading our dog
beyond the fence of motion light.
You and I have tired of each other’s unhemmed
manner about the house. You wear pajamas
after work; I write a book about a man
who loses his wife to writing a book.
You cry over cable dramas.
You’ve stopped believing there’s any more
story to me. And every night before dinner
I take the dog across the neighborhood,
into the penumbral field. There, I rename
the distant trees and imagine what you might
be doing alone. I even hope for you, sometimes,
to have a secret lover who takes up exactly
the space and time I don’t.
But now, now that it’s over, picture me
in that malleable field, and call out what you will.