Dog Days

On these dog days
beneath the haze
I can barely hear
the wordless voice
of the shy creature:

Stay with me.

The summer air is soupy
with memory and conflicting auspices.
The mouth quavers, anticipating
melons. The mind is lazy and eager
to be anywhere else.

Clouds form and chase
and dissipate, and I need you
to stay here with me—
feet planted,
abdomen like a tree trunk,
tongue embracing today's food
like life's only gift,
here with me.