What do you think the animals know of ourselves?

Aren’t we all looking for some shade of grandeur,
some fountain with a bronze patina against which to lean;
for the invitation to a secret ball, some spectacular circus
to celebrate the onset of the monsoon? Would that not be
a most appropriate event at which to debut one’s crushed
silk garment with pleats that look like darkly
moving currents, one’s jewels that shimmer sapphire
drops of water? Our pizza days slide into their cardboard
boxes and there are only two little hot peppers curled
in a corner with the tub of faux blue cheese sauce.
Glimpsed through the open window of a neighbor’s house,
teenage girls raise their freckled arms, glistening,
shaking their Just Dance wands to the pulse of music.
They aren’t tired yet. A parakeet watches from its indoor
swing. They eat cream from cold bowls. Their eyelids
flutter in the orange glow of a kitchen lamp,
refusing any servings of clairvoyance.


In response to Via Negativa: The real news .

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