what was it I wanted
to write about
just a minute ago
before the dog woke up
cold snout under my arm
whimpering for a rub
before the November
rain beating on the glass
of the kitchen door became
so insistent
before I contemplated
that the wine was all I remembered
of dinner earlier that night
a flash of deep attachment
to the humanizing
of the bayonet of lidless nights—
that’s all that’s left
that and the florescent ballast buzz
of piecing together
a lovely sleepless night