Don't marry a man who spies
on the neighbors, his hand a thistle,
his friend a bottle lit from within.

Don't marry the man who lures you
with bait hooks, fly zappers,
boxtraps, spring-loaded doors.

See the way shadows fall, moon full
for a moment, then rolling away
from you into the dark? Shake

yourself free, and proofs follow—
the fact of desire and a large yellow dog
running cheerfully toward you,

wet green ball in his mouth. Marry
the man who runs toward you both,
calling your midnight names.