A letter of apology,
your birthday thing, saying- I think
I stole time from you- spills on
the wet pavement. No movement
this morning. A bed of unborn
flowers features a sleeping dog.
God, I find myself susurrus,
What did you steal from me? Would it
be a theft if I do not feel
the loss of it? And I turn
towards the house, fail to find it
where I left it five minutes ago.