November

The dog's spiked coat grows blacker.
His teeth shine in the moonlight
and the children snarl at him, grow sullen.

Water enters the basement mysteriously.
We've been pumping all week,
dredging up dead animals, reptiles.
The children's dolls float face down
against the current.

Burning leaves, a neighbor ignites
his house deliberately. I watch his family
walking through the flames.

November. Always it is the same
kind of beginning.
Something out of place in the pantry.
Doors bolted from the wrong side.

Small things, you say. Easily explained.
They change our lives.
For example, dishes collapse in the sink
and the household is instantly awake.

The children stand in the doorway,
eyes red-rimmed, small punctures
clotting on their skin.
"We saw it," they say moving towards us.
My wife's hand tightens on my wrist.