Kissa Tanto

The kitchen whirled

The scalding breath, stirred

The pungent sauce, sizzled

In the rust-flaked pan, burnt.

And then the stump of a cough

Corked and twisted,

Stretched the hooked feet

With a clatter of images;

The light broke

With the apparition

Of traffic–

The shades sheathed in shades.

One must devise the ways

To trail down the street

Leading… leading…

The ground is not ephemeral

The rocks are not soft,

Waiting,

Cracking,

Before that intersection,

And the heat drizzles

Lifts the shadows

That smoked

Cooling.

And like currents recurring,

We plunged down with soft heels.

The clouds drift,

The sun shakes

Unfolds

The shaft of emptiness

Towards the vacant room;

The cracked torrid floor lies

With circumspection of the heavy air.

And we lie, lying; the sand scrapes

Like a rusted oven plate.

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