Poetry, Vol. 3.3, Sept. 2009
The living room is dark
save for the white dog. Moonlit and snarling.
It is white save for the eyes
which are gaps in perception.
The first time I saw a volcano,
it was in the presence of dying. The violence
of lava. And now the brother is dead.
The dog has retained
so much of the urine stain
on the couch. How the things left behind
map their own territory.
Light from the television is drawn
to the place before
disappearing. A study in mortality.
This isn’t the world or love
made in the form of addiction. This is
a manhole inside the face inside the brother
where the brother is
secondary to the manhole.