Whether Or Not The Stars Were Out
There is flattened rat on the asphalt, circle
of smoothed guts black like a new moon,
vacating life from the silvery-haired body.
I take the elevator up one floor, undress
in the thin light of the bathroom; through
socks I feel the radiator warmth pooled
on the tile floor. A cheap pink oozes over
the lip of my sock, pressed against the back
of my ankle rubbed raw by last night’s heels.
It looks like a glaze, like it’s ready for the kiln,
to be pulled out the next morning a gasping green;
the wonder of how heat can change things.
© CAI
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