Zephyr

The summer come, she took to sleeping just outside
the door that keeps her out of where we sleep.
I stumble on her in the dark; she starts,
but not from pain, and arches toward my hand.

I give her the expected rub; she licks
the air between us with a yearning speed.
I lean my face into the reeking maw,
and she anoints me with her hot loud kiss.

A dog’s true needs are few, but love is one,
and when it’s rare the hope of love will do.
The name is pretty, and it suits her well,
but dogs, of course, are not much like the wind.

The wind is wild, rapacious, pure, and free;
A dog is flesh that craves a touch from me.