direction

my heart is that frazzled dog walker whose fingers
laced with leashes on the first false day of spring
are coming out of their sockets and running

with the terriers to the fountain
with the bulldogs
to the bare grass with the park avenue
st. bernards to some hallowed ground
still marked
with the scent of autumn squirrels.

somewhere, there are well-trained dogs
playing bridge in dusty silence, their tails
unwagging
and full of secrets, their mouths
plugged with expensive cigars.

let them live
as they know how. our hearts

are pulled
in the direction of birds.