I still hold out selfish
hope that what we buried
near the gardenia is
not you - you are
napping,
nestled against the
orange toothless ready
to go to the other realm
of existence companion
you are battling, cornering
german shepherds - you
in your orange and white
squeaking down from the table
running thru the grass in the moonlight
coming home to sleep in the curve of my hip
this pain belongs to another
as I scan the streets, the trees
those lost then found
as the seasons turn
