a woman with straight black hair who used to work for a concert promoter responds to my email seeking label design help and then disappears

had i more
energy, i’d comment
on the small
wooden table.

were i not furtive like
the small pale blonde
cat currently wolfing
and then feline fleeing,
i would mention
the unseen mountains,
the quilted cover
of cloud.

i poured my liquid
meat into the giggling
jiggle of morning job,
and now i am
vacant.

i refill with
water; in homage to
leaking sky?
in deification of
escaping
salts?

were i a human
of more
resolute framework,
like this small
wooden table,
i may be able
to work my tongue
in angles less
obtuse.

i hide behind
riddle as
an attempt
to find meaning
in the fleeting
footfall of my own
personal planet,
spinning.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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