Migration

I hate dull metals too much

for making children.

Seems absurd in winter

to think about children.

The snow melts.

It looks like fall to you. In the little pictures I send

I’m creaking away from this house,

towards you and toothlessness,

following stray dogs like a bear

that can’t stay or shake.

They look at me like I’m crazy

and wonder if I’m coming back.

If I arrive,

will you be kind?

And tell me what your mouth has been doing

so far from my ear.