Windowsills black as dog lips. Panes milky as a blind eye. Curtain of dust descends with a flop, causing the fleas to jump. The house dozes, snoring gently. Dig your muzzle into the steaming compost, pull the warm tongue up over your head. Stay as quiet as you can, keep the day from heaving awake. Street lined with sleeping heaps. A crash of garbage cans, claws scratching brick, scampering down the hallway. Toenails tick the asphalt of the driveway. One building twitches, on blinks a light in the basement window, blinks off. A blind flaps and is yanked back down. Buzzing flies lazily lashed by the flick of a hose. A screen door bangs and is immediately latched. The telephone poles relax their shoulders, wires slumping with relief. The birds that once balanced like beads of sweat along the lines are now scattered bones beneath the porch. The sun eventually bores a hole in the clouds, lowers a rope of light, but no one dares to clamp their jaws around it, tiny memories still plagued by memories of the leash.