It’s a short read “The Long Spoon”
and ghastly black in this fat sack of the devil.

Endlessly dark and velveteen
he came as a cat, which I found

as they say, a bit suss. After all, I’m a dog
person. We are Elizabeth Bishop people.

Because she loathed Oreos and the purring
drama of telenovelas. When I die, won’t you

remember me by my distastes—
for they are few and we are far between.

As when you call me and I cannot help
but to experience your lyric

as a species of weather where
I’ve always resided. Like magic, there is more

to poetry than these simple tricks.
The hands are real. The risk of drowning.