With the Ancient Dog, He Stepped outside at Midnight

With him went the black small beast.
A dark wind shook the tamerisks
But could not blow the stars and moon about.

The dog had always vanished;
Never, once, come back unasked
Till now, tonight, quick as though menaced

By something in the humor
Of signals: the wind’s tentative sound,
That watch-and-wait of eyes, stellar and lunar.

For close to the dog was a shape.
By the lit door love stood its ground.
The dog looked up in fear, in habit and hope.

At just this balance, beast and human,
The windy midnight spoke two words
Old and new for them to hear in common

Distinctly: love and death.
Then they moved, separate, and the door
Shut them inside together, for tonight at least.

And through the smallest hours
The still house like a brittle spar
Rode out the night among the jagged stars.