Whatever this is I’m attributing to the moon it’s probably due to wine or the hour, empty things exerting more pull, being more of a lure than those that are full— . It’s late, the small dog’s snore belying its size: or, what seemed large is small, or, what is small, seemed large.
This old dog gets lost inside the house now sticks her head into doors that she can’t place– is this the bathroom or is it the lake? And I can’t tell from her sweet face if she’s figured it out or forgotten what she came for– and how do I stop her world from receding when the hard truth is that it’s not the world that is leaving?
OPTIONAL POETRY 