Pink St.

The cat
sleeps half-
burned

on the sofa’s
corner.

While on Pink St.
below
death rolls
on.

Who is this mayor
of Pink
St.

who
comes
in awful cans of
pickled, inert
human
paste?

His mind
is famous
for having worked
miracles
in other cities—turned

tombs
into lampshades
covering lightening.

Now, it’s a
trick he’s gone and done here to us.

All that’s left is
black stumps
and
half-burned cats
and dozens of stitches
running up and
down
like zippers on
our hearts;

of course,
not mine. No, not mine.

Of course, I’m here
in a jar myself. My eyes
in bags, my
genitals wrapped
in
gauze, my hands
disassembled
like jigsaw puzzles of
clouds

come on!

Who’s done this to us?
Who’s
gone ahead and
done something
other than the usual
wake up
and yawn at their dreams of lions
before changing the batteries,
cinching the full
bag of trash
and tossing the tepid
water
of the
Hydrangeas?