Vole

Our hearts like the terrier
who checks the woodpile
over and over
           for years
           because once he saw there the shining vole.

That path etched like chrysanthemum typescript
by each naked pink foot.

An enduring breath-thump in the raw umber cathedral:
                                                               vole vole vole vole vole vole vole
                                                               vole vole vole vole vole vole vole
                                                               vole vole vole vole vole vole vole.

And surely if the dog could drive
and were me

he’d cruise your house
                            in the accusing flakes of moonlight,
each refracted thread
                            a diamond-studded leash
                            a line of celloed quarter-notes straining against the sky
                            (a vole winking from the shadows).

And surely if the dog could spell

he’d see the anagram in his obsession

but if he were me
he would think it
neither an obsession
nor a coincidence

and he would do the moon’s bidding.

                                                               monosyllabic body trembling, eager
                                                               to open the body of another.