"Is that your cat?" they said, pointing To a rag of white on the roadside. I went over for a closer look, Thinking--no, it can't be, it looks almost gray-- The dark hair moving as if by wind Or breath: ants. The dead are so changed; earth-heavy, still. I should bury the cat. But the ground is hard; I scratch out a shallow hole--a mouth. I wonder whose face is under my shoe. Instead, I tip the cat into a plastic bag. Early the next morning, on my way to work, I throw the white bag into a trash bin. It crashes like a rock. All that day I am afraid of my blood, Crawling blue under my skin. If someone Slit the veins, it would pour out, tiny and dark, Waving antennae.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com