MY LOST SLEEP/AT LAST

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My Lost Sleep
My lost sleep
is a dew-legged dog
in the garden,
snuffing the first light
from the grass.
Doglike it persists in ignorance
of the likelihood of reward
- wanting only rest, or sex,
but knowing not how to be deserving,
since no scraps fall
from its master's hands,
though it begs
as water runs
or a flower turns,
but does not shirk its duty,
nose to the soil
even at this heartsick hour,
as all about and upon its matted back
the grey flame of morning
leavens the day
- a loaf dreamed up by night -
and the forgotten chimneys of waking
spout again cumbersome sails,
heavy with the lateness
settled now like an unshakeable dust.

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At Last
At last
there is nothing I can do.
A kitchen's worth of forgiveness
itemised on the rug -
I will hang your scarf
on the nail above the sink.