Poem for Lickens

Back on the farm, Lickens, the dog's body
that was once yours has died,
and all your breaths have scattered like leaves.
I understand they buried it

beneath the blackjack oaks. In a hole
such as the kind you used to dig.
The letter that reported its death
was misplaced so that I didn't open it for a while.

And when I reached the line that reported your death
the sun rose. It had been one of my sleepless
nights, and the sun fell on me sharp.
Tired as I was, I cried.

Now you pant in the wintergrass,
living backwards, paying back the air,
reimbursing the earth.

Stay, Lickens. I can't have you
running through my mind, where winters
kill everything, where summers are hot as tears.