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.