by Stanley Rubin
You need to watch the dog
run crazy circles around the moon
to understand the inefficiency of tails,
the way something that follows you
every moment everywhere can be
a torment, like memories of someone lost
coming back and coming back again.
See how he buries his head
in the worn yellow cushion she left
and won’t come out for hours.
He’ll wait until he’s hungry to risk
another close encounter with himself,
trying to find the world the way it used to be,
his tail a shadow on the floor.