The Missing Sugar of 1981
The footloose villages of her own probable Argentina
have been meadowed now and pastured.
She’s a gutter-cat licking the bakery window.
The storage space her brain built flooded.
If you didn’t know the river,
you might think it doesn’t bite.
I’m speaking of intentions now in
an old suit worn like moss.
I can’t wave goodbye in Spanish or
collect branches, water roots, prune envy.
Gratitude doesn’t live here.
The cat’s still pretending to be just a cat.
The yellow wolf of uncertainty comes calling.
You don’t even trust your cat.
This requires a landscape but not a real one.
Perhaps the ceiling camped there, and I was invited.
It’s not impossibility that ruins it, but
perceptions higher than
the door in the crook of the word’s last letter.
It doesn’t close till everyone’s inside.
It’s too many people to follow,
but do it anyway.
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