Daily Longing

Camille Newsom

Outside cars and trucks echo.
Sounds bounce between human hives,
shades cover our insides:
chronic bloating and dumb horrors.
A few people pass by,
dogs strung to wrists and belts,
the occasional child in hand,

but these days children are dated.
The cemetery is filled
now that it’s winter, a warm
winter I don’t like. I find
heated encounters with the living
tiring. My dreams to go north
flourish, north where I know

no one, but deeply belong
to the shy sun. Dog knows
it’s a “beautiful day,” requesting
to tan in the yard, to guard our hive
from authority, dog or otherwise.
He lies, nose scooping the breeze,
eyes squinted, a slow pant.