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Fork tines on the kitchen floor,
your labrador: tappa-tappa-tap

White teeth pink tongue with
event-horizon fur, a warm black

housing nuclear chain reactions
in the body of a dog—

Toronto tonight is a library of snowflakes.

We dress like funerals,
    because everyone I know
            mourns the self
they ought to be,

    takes buses home

in a wished-i-love-you black.

If we walk to the lake
we might get locked away
in its stomach. A vault,

it’s almost enough to make you believe
in the end of some things