No one near to see or hear me but the dog, 
who sighs when I say serious things & I’m dead 
serious when I tell her how her pearl gray muzzle 
is softer than Samarkand silk. 

No one to tell I just read that on hot August 
nights, Verlaine would throw pail after pail after 
cold water pail on the flagstones under Rimbaud’s 
windows, to cool the air as he slept.

No one to join me me for some sweet sidesteps —
to Fats Domino as the dog’s tail wags out of rhythm — or hear me
sing a Flemish song about spring coming soon 
& the Phallus Impudicus being almost in bloom.

To see me kneel by the rosemary, breathing in
its oily green before every shade of night's grays comes flitting 
into the yard & the traffic of skunks & raccoons takes over 
to feast from such fresh new darkness.

No one here to be with all this then nod, 
fondly, before leaving the raccoon and rosemary, the dog, 
& me. goodnight, goodnight.a lilt in their voice — 
a lovely lightness in their step.