Wildebeests got so close to biting my dog that her black fur has turned wholly white,
the texture of a mattress floating in an estuary.
I am the houseguest of any dream.
With salt in the windowsills, the garden breeze rushes in its zucchini and squash.
I go back to the drawing board: rethinking rabbits.
The mother must have escorted out the kits
burrowed underneath our thyme, leaving a bulge of dirt.
No one has asked me to leave, but a broom appears by the door.
Now our dog, injured with a cut paw, crouches as far as she can
beneath the seat—pain a state of infancy, an estuary to the open sea.