Is it the poet’s responsibility
to record the raindrops
or the spaces in between?
the words, or the silence after?

It’s been almost four years
 since I put down my dog.
 Was the poem his life
 or the emptiness in his wake?

The mosquito on my ankle
 left a red streak. Was the poem
 its life? the itch it left? was it
 me scratching until it bled?