The Increasing Frequency of Black Swans

I was listening for the dog when the locks were pried open. The man was dead. The dog, a survivor, was dead. It happens more often this way. A disease left untreated; the body, in confusion, gives in. The bomb breathes its fire down the hallway, the son comes back in pieces; the body, in confusion, gives in. The grief is a planet. A dust ring. A small moon that’s been hidden under my pillow, that’s been changing the way my body moves this whole time.