I floss at night after steak and butter.
My house: unguarded range, bison huffing,
ice-faced, hooves stamping an echo stutter.
I do nothing in this boundless nothing.
No thought, no synapse firing. Still hands still
stained—berry juice of an empty morning.
This room-less space, a translucent thin will
through which I, good sow, whiff my boy’s homing.
His trek complete, except for the recount—
bighorn sheep, bull moose, near miss, eagle plume.
I toss one sleek mink to the catamount.
The grass lies down; walls rise around my room.
Ursa fades. A house cat lurks in willow.
I sip gin, smooth the pelt of my pillows.