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Every Day

ISSUE:  Winter 1983
The dog’s bark that sounds as if it were choking
on its own grief—I hear it each night
before bed and take it with me into sleep
to be used, I know, to name a part
I would prefer to lose in sleep
in breakfast and in music—that part
I won’t recall except reluctantly,
as if to face myself in something hopeless
of correction but must be felt
because I am the guilty one
for wanting to escape that grief,
unhappy coughlike bark which comes at night
and night is dark enough
to keep it hidden but night is when
it happens and where it lives
and that is the night that follows
every day.


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