When you called, I would come running, all my tags jingling.
You’d grab a hank of my hair, and that would block out every thought.

Our bodies swelled and stank in the heat,
and we caved to it all day, under a cloud of flies.

I dreamt of strung pheasants in old paintings, a horse
of thick paste biting my arm. I dreamt of nothing.

Sticky and hungry, we were like bad-tempered children who stay out
too long in the rain. They feel lonely but have no language for it.

You once gashed your head open. My leg twisted beneath me
at a serene new angle. Our greed was largest, and most generous.

With the sun high behind us, we weren’t two but four,
our shadows playing ahead of us in the melting summer grasses.

We became almost ugly with use, our questions traveling too fast,
no one stopping to answer. The cat looked into our faces through sleepy slits.

I dreamt that I died. You weren’t even very sad: you touched
my face, it was already cold. And cold was beyond understanding.