—THERE MUST BE SOMEWAY OUT OF HERE

 

 

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.