Of the Painted Mouth

When they came home early:

There was no barking from the house.
Inside, the old dog was lying down,
the weight of missing on his snout.

The vanity mirror would not shut up:
it told them that her skirt muttered
little circles on the floor when she fell,
and that she sat there for several minutes,
bemused, dots warring against gridded tile.

And the living room was full of envelopes,
inflated, ballooning at the joints and seams,
courtesy of the housesitter's daughter
who had kissed them all alive.