Straight lines like a stab
Caroline Klocksiem

The cat stalks not
the finch but her shadow’s
flitter across the sun
field on the floor.

Outside, the wind’s wild
lace through pines, oceanic
roars they translate

into. Baby blue surges
the sky around needles
exclaiming the trees

their negative space
like a gash. Shadows sew
the day shut, dead lips. Living
animals dart across
the most enormous plain: green

wing of the god
of precision, my spreading

fury at the myth of precision …

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