Churchill called it the black dog.
It is a freight car full of road tar,
it’s lumpen shoulders dragging behind me.
I can feel your heart through your shirt.
Mine has a sour taste like stale whiskey.
Winter hums on the street corners
without pace or rhythm.
Words clatter backwards–
folk songs without a country.
A man on stilts walks behind the President,
turning and leering,
the sun setting behind them
freezes the birds onto the tree limbs,
painting my eyelids
with the long teeth of dreams.