by Dana Curtis
There's nothing so small that there isn't something smaller --
a very small cat killed an even smaller mouse
and the box issues physics,
(sell: failed cell: blood) a gaslit house:
everything unseen escapes a still warm body
because the box is open, the experiment is over.
I don't think there was any intention --
put it in a plastic bag and take it to the dumpster --
children cry from the depths.
(Malice: abattoir) scratching in the night --
genetics will out.
(this is the stench
that comes from experiment’s end)
most things are smaller/larger than me.
These flowers smell of almonds and omens --
the party at experiment’s end.
Infants line the buffet and
ghost mice dream of ghost cats --
all those tiny organisms rushing away.
Footprints in the Brie,
cigarettes breeding in the carcass.
Walk in shame -- place
the box inside the box.
The small sun obscured by smaller clouds -- it's all so lovely --
inert in my hand (I think of Algernon.)(Think of light.)
The inevitable --
as the dumpster child looks at death --variety --
nothing can ever be called smallest.
She dances in the summer rain
(bark of tree, bark of shin, bark of dog)
atmospheres -- this tear -- how you
pay heed to the lead lined box?
The measurement of unseen movements