Tuesday, January 11, 2011

New Year

The days are not the same though
they feel that way. It is how I seem:
see-through, like a gun can trace
a line, a way to see. Seam from eye
to wheel, to a thread that frays
and turns to ink. Edge of a hole
where a paw marks the edge
of our map. A chart of stars
for a fur bird to make a course
through blue, black -- all the hues
we love to lack. Our lack is a fence
the same shade as grass. As glass
finds an eye, the mass of fur we track
comes blue and soft to us, in scraps.

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is this real?