Vanishing Interior by Suzanne Buffam

Little patches of grass disappear
In the jaws of lusty squirrels
Who slip into the spruce.
Cars collapse into parts.
Spring dissolves into summer,
The kitten into the cat.
A tray of drinks departs from the buffet
And voilà! the party’s over.
All that’s left are some pickles
And a sprig of wilting parsley on the rug.
When I think of all those
Gong-tormented Mesozoic seas
I feel a ripple of extinction
And blow a smoke ring through the trees.
Soon there will be nothing left here but sky.
When I think about the fact
I am not thinking about you
It is a new way of thinking about you.

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