I remember the house on the other side
of town with dogs chained near
the door, how you entered first
and scattered the floor with newspaper
for the woman about to birth a fox.
I leaned out the window to watch
bats form a funnel cloud, turn white
as the moon circled their swarm
like a drain. Regret is such a drag
when it’s the reason to board things up
to gut every room
where we existed at the wrong time.
Deadlocked beneath the awning
I imagined a thermometer
broken in the palm of a hand.
A breeze lifted fig leaves bearing yesterday’s rain.
Discrete beads firm as mercury.