Friday, February 8, 2013

A poem


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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