The Secret Forms of Animals
In my diary, the entry for today,
every word rhymes with
every other
more closely
than any word rhymes
with silence.
Above my house, swifts
dime-turn in snapped triangulations.
Compare the diary’s previous entries: fly-squash
on windscreens in Kansas, or, in the Sudan
the structural integrity of mud brick domiciles.
Across cat’s eyes and double yellows,
the stringy reds and broken feathers
mark the nature of reminiscence, a seething spent,
a perfect circle traced at last attempt.
My raised hand obscures the sun, the swifts
fetching noon’s high blues
in sprints towards twilight, and Cassiopeia’s early stars.
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