“Have the dogs been out?” you ask.
They follow, hidden-treats-beguiled,
Into the garden, sky sharpened
To the point of extinction,
And I stand, undressed, facing the stars -
Midwives to all that I was, am -
Not daring to question why, how,
My heart’s static guttering, driven
By the same breathless force that grooms
Our air with its unfathomed sex.
It’s pistils, their physics cushioned, unfold
Primed keys to these lockless doors,
Guardians of the one answer
I cannot, do not want to comprehend.