Removal Act

All the while the dog was dying.

I didn’t know. His little heaps

of yellow vomit. Damp spots

where he’d slept. I didn’t know

what it meant until meaning

sat still enough for me to see

nothing else. Then a man put

in my hand a pamphlet on loss.

Big flat letters. A sun, rising

or setting above gray waves,

the clouds arrayed in shapes

incomparable to any animal.

I thanked him. Shut the door.

For a long time, I lay silent

on the floor. Unneeded, I

had no meaning. Or meaning

unmade itself, no longer

needing me.