Suzanne Buffam
VANISHING INTERIOR
VANISHING INTERIOR
Little patches of grass disappear
in the jaws of lusty squirrels
who slip into the spruce.
Cars collapse into parts.
Spring dissolves into late spring,
the kitten into the cat.
A tray of drinks departs from the buffet
and voila! the party’s over.
All that’s left are some pickles
and a sprig of wilting
parsley on the rug. Day turns sideways
and wanders off into dusk.
When I think of all those
gong-tormented Mesozioc 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 of you,
it is a new way of thinking about you.