You make me so sad, my hands hurt.
You make me so sad, I whimper in my sleep.
Like the toothless old pig-dog at the sheep-country pub,
my throat has a brick in its mouth.
I can barely swallow.

You make me so sad, I roam and roam
to get away from the ache.
Like an old dog running away from its mutilated tail,
I pad alongside the sea;
I nod at strangers-
at the Indian doctor and his jerky wife-
I walk past places with gardens I admire,
and, in the middle of the day,
I wander sadly by myself
past cardboard houses, unoccupied, and
intent and wordless builders
and cement mixers
over-heating in the sun.

You make me so sad,
because my canine fidelity is nothing to you
compared to all that you have:
your fleshy language made of tongues,
your peel-away, polaroid memories,
your nameless wife...(I dreamt of her.
Is it Ingrid? I bullied her...
Is it Gertrude?)

Sometimes, I hate you, though you are just a man.
I hate you the way I might hate a god,
but you are just a man.