The dog’s at the window again
barking at nothing,
at sunlight and winged commas,
the full-stopped silence of a plane.
He barks like a typewriter and the world
is a broken paragraph in my head.
What time is it? Where?
America, Egypt, Japan?
No good. Here?
Clock on the wall
hasn’t worked for years,
maybe. Or days. Or maybe
it’s always been eleven to two.
No, don’t fix it.
I prefer its hands still.
This way we live forever.
Read my mind. There are whole hours
during which we don’t speak a word
to each other. Then
occasionally, I hear you exhale,
like you’ve suddenly remembered to breathe.