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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 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.

from The IrrationalistFind more by Suzanne Buffam at the library

Copyright © 2010 Suzanne Buffam
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Published in Poems Suzanne Buffam

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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