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.
Suzanne Buffam, Vanishing Interior