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.