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Poem	The dogs greet me, I descend into their world of fur and tongues and then my wife and I embrace as if we'd just closed the door in a motel, our two girls slip in between us and we're all saying each other's names and the dogs Buster and Sundown are on their hind legs, people-style, seeking more love. I've come home wanting to touch everyone, everything; usually I turn the key and they're all lost in food or homework, even the dogs are preoccupied with themselves, I desire only to ease back in, the mail, a drink, but tonight the body-hungers have sent out their long-range signals or love itself has risen from its squalor of neglect. Everytime the kids turn their backs I touch my wife's breasts and when she checks the dinner the unfriendly cat on the dishwasher wants to rub heads, starts to speak with his little motor and violin-- everything, everyone is intelligible in the language of touch, and we sit down to dinner inarticulate as blood, all difficulties postponed because the weather is so good.
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