Of course it’s an explosion, the number seven
flying off to the north, cat’s whiskers to the east,
a checkerboard dead center staying put to confound her.
Today is a tantrum—detto diluvio.
One cat looks one way; the other, the other.
She is an imaginary city
consistent with a style of progressive architecture.
She was never destined for a pure reality.
Come rivolta non importa.
Yes, she’s electric and yes,
she’s a monster
at times.
Now verticale
now orizzontale
now equilibrio
now silenzio.
How simple she looks
riding a bike. How simple she sees
what she sees. She could be a camera,
each eye a little leaf shutter, angles falling over themselves
until blankness. When stripped of light she is decidedly less.
Diminished to fewer than few, to cat whiskers cut on a bias—
O now see the mice play their game of croquet
on the unswept dining room carpet.