How Things Must Drop

How a dog spins sharp circles
In the crunch of autumn.
Not here, not here.
How we circle through flavors
Like Tuesday, Wednesday
Not here, we squat and spin.
How the dog crunches orange
And red scents
Rise up echoes of earth, not here
How the wall has a hole
And the fence needs mending
When? Soon, soon, I can feel it
How perhaps over here, the dog begins
A new spin in a new spot
Not…quite…
How a hammer feels, the weight of it
The balance; the taste of nails.
Soon, I tell her, soon.
Hurry pup, hurry up
It’s late and I’m tired
Here, he sighs.