Number 17A
This morning the cat
is speaking in tongues
and the stereo’s playing
with matches
while I keep trying
to juggle each empty carcass.
It’s a visceral occasion,
a Jackson Pollock contusion,
though the days fold themselves
into the panty drawer
neat as crimson blintzes.
If you left a note,
it must have got
snatched by crypt-keeper.
He’s been known to filch
whatever he finds
most authentic and offensive.
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