DISPERSAL, JULY The dog does not know yet. The boots are stacked but her nose is still down, reading the same inch of path she has always read. The arms tighten once. This is the only warm colour in the known world. A coat lies on the grass because someone put it down and then forgot which trip this was. The sky is not unkind. The sky is not anything. Four degrees does not have a position on love. The car door stays open the way a question stays open: booted, loaded, angled toward the road, waiting for the last person to stop being the last person.