i’m not sure
the carbon from our last gasp held in a tree ring somewhere,
the water from the tears of our last lament rising in the sap,
trees don’t react but in their hearts they know,
but they do not tell.
the train rides through the skirting board back to our childhood,
rides into the dark and returns fireside carrying all the
answers we would never need.
i smooth the cat way back in time,
my hand a centimetre away from the eggshell
around her brain
that is full of mice and birds and sleep; listen,
her purr is the ratchet on the big dipper of a
book of poems from a posthumous poet, that,
when it fell open, widened the cat’s eyes and
her ears went back. there, there, smoothed
her back into the past before the poet passed,
and then we slept; our minds as one.
what else is there to say?
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