The poets in us die line by line,
until, like a tree shedding its leaves,
there are no more.
Not less than what was intended.
Not more, because
there are only so many lines
in the world,
and they must be shared.
No more, no less.
So if any of us are hungry
we are all hungry.
So if any of us are loved,
we will all be loved,
no more, no less.
Except if we keep a dog,
whose eyes of shameless
purity and limitless love
forgive us for a
pat on the head.
For them, if they are poets,
their lines would fill the sea,
then the heavens,
and swamp the edge of infinity.
While we have to be
sparing in what we have.
But for them,
the dogs in our lives,
there is no limit to love,
or sorrow,
when we bury them.