Small Mass
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The cat, the door
Every creature always wanting more
Me, a sharper reality, something less idle
Nightmare, great fear
Watching never stirring pots
The cat, the door
Do I not feed you, what's all this fuss for?
Fine, leave, see if I care
Pressing my thumb to the red hot coils on the stove
The cat, the car, the impact, the dark
A note on the front step
A cardboard box lined with velvet
Slowly lowering, what I'm asking
Can my child learn from your small mass?
The scorpion grass, a back-turned-graveyard