Yellow Dogs

what one woman sees is
a man eating worlds
like grapes plucked fresh from a vine—
weedy and gritty like a moth’s wings.

and at the lake, on the water
shines the sun like a distant
disc of purity, and picnics
are spread on the grass
between star-shaped buds.

yellow dogs are calling, calling, calling
to something i can’t imagine
far over the golden-white horizon.

“tomorrow will be a Great American Sunday,”
the man says, wiping ocean
waters from his mouth and the crumbling
lands of England. he points to the sky.
“tomorrow will be a Great American Sunday.”
one woman turns and sees only yesterday.