I want banks of them, towers spun-
glass-white against reflected sea

but less than needed for rain. Sun must limn,
the moon weave between gauzy strips.

Like a young dog, god must be nurtured,
allowed the red meat of the heart.

For a week I was consumed like bread,
filled like a deep bowl. Sometimes

we die a little, hovering above ourselves.
Sometimes we repeat what we’ve seen.

Today, everywhere, the sky is a dropcloth
washed and washed of its cerulean dye,

everywhere, there are raindogs we don’t notice
lying homeless in doorways. Somewhere

a bare bulb still burns after one hundred
thirteen years. I sometimes see the red

spirit of it, dancing. Overhead, clouds
hang like thinning muslin dishcloths,

and all the dogs are scratching
to be let in.