thoughts

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I told you, from a distance, that I loved you, and was blackened with the earned shame of the illicit. Noses sniffed. Fingers pointed. Hands covered whispering lips. But you? You had a look of surprised wonder, and blushed redly, uncaring of the devil’s radio.

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As large as life

stopped at a light i saw in slow seconds herself in bliss with eyes half closed in quiet crescents her hem in hand as if to shoo nipping cats watch the puddles dear you are out of this world but i pray for yours

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The thin cat thinks

All bony and moany, on hollow stilts he walks, stumbling to a slow pause. With dimming lamps he scans the dumbness of air, then cries at the memory of the hunt. The plates of his shoulders stretch his sparse skin, and pepper spots remember lost whiskers.

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The motions

I am left-leaning, by dint of bones. In love with the art of the cat and his season of the witch. In the morning shower, in coveralls of numb, I cook up paeans to the nebulous You.

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a plan

Coffee in the quiet warmth of morning. Birdsong ‘neath a cloud’s tilted anvil, and the way they paint their paths to a landing. Soft intrusions of fly feet and the clack of a late beetle. The imprisoned cat, with his round lamps and cobra sway. Later, I will buy boxes of band-aids.

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