As you measure your days from the suspension point,
the dog rolls belly-up into full gravity surrender.
Her four paws drift above silky thrown-back ears
and lips drawn like drapes, pulled away to reveal
the killing-canines of her ancestors, sharp slashes in the softness,
oddly comic, almost fierce,
like the freeze-frame squirrel that posed quivering this morning
in early spring slim, red coat fanned by the sun
into embers caught as ellipsis, between pause
and alarm, admonishment vibrating its question-mark tail,
reminding me not
of this gelatinous dog, slack-back relaxed in a parenthetic joy,
but of how easy it is to not notice my own shape, or how I punctuate this life,
and what it might mean to read it.