Little patches of grass disappear
In the jaws of lusty squirrels

Who slip into the spruce.
Cars collapse into parts.

Spring dissolves into summer,
The kitten into the cat.

A tray of drinks departs from the buffet
And voilà! the party’s over.

All that’s left are some pickles
And a sprig of wilting parsley on the rug.

When I think of all those
Gong-tormented Mesozoic seas

I feel a ripple of extinction
And blow a smoke ring through the trees.

Soon there will be nothing left here but sky.
When I think about the fact

I am not thinking about you
It is a new way of thinking about you.

 

Suzanne Buffam, Vanishing Interior

 

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