There was a cat in the fire yesterday.
Eyes like red nails and a mouth like embers
inside of a bucket, smoking too.
All of its rust fell off in a heap, flames blue.
It stretched and it yawned and it burped up
purple tipped flames through the insides
of an invisible flue.
Night air and night winds down
can you be a town that only ever sells shoes.
Your little toes. By the fire.
Dissolved and de-volved and backed up when I'm 'round you.
Or me. You and me. You and eye.
The eyes of the cat look a lot like a bat
grown too large to hang from a ceiling.
The fire flies died the first time that the temperature fell
and the lights that are rising play a game of
satellite William Tell.
On the left, in shrubbery, a dog dives
to clip a grasshopper's wing.
Good boy.
