Apparently I wrote this in February, but I don't really remember. But here it is.

not that a white dog yields, fur
bounces around in a morning air
but the gentle tube fuzz of your
quickly beating heart that is soft
again under my ear under my head
footprints trapped in black ice
the noise of firecrackers from across town
where poppop goes some small
critter in a patriotic swirl of
childhood glee and guilt that
anchors into a gut and rusts as
well as sprouts roots and might die
but also might not