The family dogs are all dead,
echoes of children abound.
I count the spots, sigh my longing.
They are a constellation dotted
with love. My empty ears insist on sound
but there are only echoes, the window rusting.
The wind on dog days, the small familiar pain,
a head beneath my hand,
tongues and smiles ever panting
open up my lonely land.
But the echoes remain
of loss, my memories shifting,
blueing the day bereft;
phantoms now on the right, on the left.