John and Joseph lick their paws in silhouette against the western window.
Wise and wonderful they might be, but we would never know it,
eyes fixed on the cruelty of dead birds stinking invisible behind tall shelves,
infusing Kant and Kierkegaard with the confusion
of rotting flesh, and bone, and sharklike ants
swimming in frenzied rivulets.
If you lie down in the living room, pumps and hiking boots people the floor.
And their flipped bottoms are covered in colored earth,
and their leather knows no bounds, and at the edge
of a nightmare their ship is turning.
We need to fix the attic leak before our bed becomes a pool.