where the writers are
the dogs don't understand

I work to weave
this bit of space
into something
more transcendent,
more ethereal.
The folded clothes
stacked on the chair,
the last pair of
shoes I wore
discarded
near the bed.
A coat hanging
on the doorknob –
the entry door open
(never blocked)
because the dogs
don’t understand –
my desk, my time,
these stories crafted
from nothingness – so
they still stop by to visit
every once in awhile,
sitting quietly,
in hope of a bone.

~January 2012