The light has fallen out of the sky, a fluttery moth
singeing its wings on the low-watt moon. I watch it go
like taillights from a lover’s car. Only the fog saves
my heart’s gaze from being burnt to blind.
The key sticks a little in the turning. After all,
this is the door we don’t enter. This is the foyer
where the bodies lay stacked upon the floor. That is
why my hand falls to the doorknob. If I narrow my gaze,
I am no longer alone. There is a strange cat kneading my lap,
her black-masked face tucked in the vee of my thighs.
She is younger than me, and remembers less. Everything that walks
away is made for chasing and catching and keeping.
Thief of all that shimmies and shines: I want my tomorrow back,
my rising moon, my pale-skinned wings of promise.
Image taken with iphone
Words written while housesitting
Time Taken under 10 minutes
Brain on work, tomorrow, life
Ears on 30 Rock