What of what the cat, in its curiosity, killed?

As in, a body spared from its owner, jerked/onto a splotchy mattress

an infatuation with the idea of my skin

I was a carpenter bee bounty hunter once.

During drought or worse conditions, they can curl up and sleep in suspended animation for decades like tiny interstellar astronauts.

Why should it matter if it was I who believed?

I’m the one howling at you/tonight.

Everything is suddenly worthy/of devotion. Everything has something/to teach me. I suddenly see how quietly/the world goes about its business/without me.

He puts the dead cat in the hole we dug,/her fur still warm. For a minute/we have a small aperture of awareness.

the last to leave were redwings. / Forests turned into harpsichords.