Removal Act
All the while the dog was dying.
I didn’t know. His little heaps
of yellow vomit. Damp spots
where he’d slept. I didn’t know
what it meant until meaning
sat still enough for me to see
nothing else. Then a man put
in my hand a pamphlet on loss.
Big flat letters. A sun, rising
or setting above gray waves,
the clouds arrayed in shapes
incomparable to any animal.
I thanked him. Shut the door.
For a long time, I lay silent
on the floor. Unneeded, I
had no meaning. Or meaning
unmade itself, no longer
needing me.
