They are the same person at sunrise,
at noon they are Self and Self,
at midnight they hate each other –
doesn’t it exhaust them?
But who is it?
They live in that clapboard house
with pine shutters, there, on the ridge,
sometimes you can see her in a floral hat
trundling a wheelbarrow, or him
throwing a stick for the Airedale
who might prefer a ball or frisbee
and lifts one leg to piss.
Does it shock you they have grown old –
even the dog’s fastidiousness is gimpy,
a little somnolent?
Yet it seems the clouds that pass
over that valley are blanker,
steeper, more severe, towering,
shaped like animals, animals without eyes.