Random and I find
our landscape
a chore.
Every day we push
this sunset up a hill
then see it roll down.
Random knows.
She has joined
the sunset.
His Wawa, adding to
the weight of the grey
boulder of fading light.
I now know
why it was the colors
she feared.
Sunsets everywhere
in big cities
and small towns.
People in ventilators
tubes down their noses,
anticipating sunsets.
There are secret
sunsets, too, only
murderers witness.
This boulder heavy,
slippery, dead weight
of planets and stars.
Suddenly sunset
And then it is gone.
People sleep.
People wake up.
Everything forgotten
with a new day.
I taught Random
just push, and never forget
how many days may pass.
Random—he is a dog —
taught me
to sit. To keep still.
To wait
for the Master, mercifully,
to finally give me the treat.
