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still, here

nights? full of crackling awake static-starred hours
mornings? no new words twirl through the cinnamon-scented coffee
It is so still,
where there is no right thing to say
reminder that words
can do many things but not
puppy yawns himself awake
with a voice like a creaky uncoiled hinge.
When nothing else remains,
there is routine—he sniffs the back yard air
Barks at the morning runners
Every day, they do their thing and he does his
run and bark, bark and run
they all have their daily practice,
I have mine. Words no matter what
morning words amid the noise and feet
nothing new but we are still

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