The Black Dog Circles Once, Then Settles

The clouds cling to the horizon,
their fingers clutching like love
the sharp edge of the new day.
They mean to do us harm.

The female cardinal, dun and wan,
perches alone on the high wire line.
Across the alley, the bright male
twitters blindly through the sycamore.

Which way does the water
circle the drain? Where am I?
Could this lancing ache in my leg
be that sudden and very last throb?

Whatever gods ignore our prayers
shuffle through their eternities,
ancient mouths wrinkled and red
with the blood of vain praise.