Rehomed

I knew there would be no more running across conjectured alleyways

after fancies of blown newspapers or clear balloons;

drawn by the scent of meat long past dying,

shoved like uncertainty into the corner air.

I had passed in the night the home that is given to the dogs,

who don’t know the mind before the leash,

or how far into the world its taloned nerve is flung.

I only think, though, of that woman I saw—as depthless—

reflected from the corner window. I wonder,

should the words prove an essence as I feared,

looking up from the street could I decipher

which passing glance or long-consuming scar

separates her fading image from mine? Or if,

when the galaxies serve as streetlights (as

looking from the ground) reflections forged in vacant windows

would finally assume the mystery of the words

and give to me—at last—a being pale enough to touch.

The dog had told me how the heart is itself a bone—

buried and calcite, bleached of its sweet juices

in the sun. In want of muscles, he said, just like

these reflections, at the mercy of other winds to drive

like strays along the alleyways, while remembering

some inconceivable motion.

Pale woman, like the words from which I formed myself,

neutered and cowering, the noose has thus ensnared me:

It found my throat through treason in my breath,

choked, held, dragged me into extinguished nights.

Though, should it lead me from these indifferent streets

into god knows what, I might yet resist the pull,

as night resists the proving of its enigmas—

I have seen salvation in the promise of the noose,

jarring me back to the secrets of these streets

with a single, happy snap.