In these moods
you say I’m howling at the moon.
Dog-truth is less a wherefore than a where,
a wide-eyed whining, heaven high, this
missing is a square thing, oddly held,
is large in my throat, is a masterclass
in thumbless paws. My retriever-heart
runs restless, the bed, your chair,
the door, my dull claws
skitter mute reproach. It is no help,
the only scents I find are
absence made air.

Are these not the lips you kiss,
not these my wrists and
back and toes? Human body curled
within a canine coat?
There is no drawing out, only the dragging pace,
the silent door,
the empty chair.