Yesterday I was walking across the desert,

already in the dark, and something

growled at me quietly. A sensation

not just any, of warmth, M.


Fear like from an old book: she’s afraid that she can become a panther

and she’s not turned on by it at all, because what does a panther do? Can a panther

not close her mouth for a picture, can she go to bed in her new shoes?

When a panther looks at bread, it goes stale, that’s her gift.

A milleress also has a cool gift, to reanimate meat.


But she’d like to have one thing from a panther: when someone comes and says

a train that exists only on schedule has just left, to be able

to say oh, has it? and not try to eat the sun, so it doesn’t set.