like some bring voles
my cat brings in rainstorms
the news stretched at me, pink and teeth:
"found stiff"
I think ghosts are the spaces that
love once filled,
now thundering in the corners of our eyes
the storm gets in through gaps:
the missing
drool wet pillowcase
whiskery soft bumping crawling curling warming devotions of
yea but I know
with her switchback legs and
her fur floating off, always was
shedding,
yea,
but while the sun crushes out July
a wet ghost is curling under my chin.
