The guardian is asleep
dogging the lacy upstairs rooms
with his heavy, canine presence.
His teeth drip like knives.
We have been running the stairs,
the closets and the storage areas,
diving on dust in the basement
accumulations of furniture,
until we slip like fish
into a tank of water
into that sleep, his sleep
where dreams proved cloudy,
rainy-day, misted dreams
until one clears like tap water
let stand. We see ourselves
plastered in the back of the van
to ice cream, our eyes rolling
our hair poking up straight,
our mouths bleeding
on the way with vanilla
to nowhere north in particular.