Behind Philip Levine reading his
Last Shift poem
behind television singing and mumbling in American accents in the next room
behind crickets by the thousand clicking out their mating call
at least I guess that's what's behind their summer song
behind a fluttering moth circling the hot globe in my desk lamp
behind the quiet humming of my computer's tower
my dog Millie growing older every day and now eleven years and arthritic
snores in her nightly narratives of secret desires
my study's worn carpet now a country paddock
the well-worn scent of my sandals the musk of rabbit on the run
behind always behind Millie running red tongue flying in the wind
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