shadows of things are not things.
these silvery buds of smooth delight
that i gently brush against my skin:
they are called, you know, neko-yanagi
in japanese, a language which, by drawing things
instead of pinning down their shadows,
keeps both the cat and the willow alive.
the cat is the key, then.
balancing on the rope
tightly wrapped around my ankles,
its fur aglow, all loveliness.
it reminds me of a cat
i once saw in vilnius.
it is still crossing the street, even now,
while you brush the image away,
with, i think, what could be called a smile:
photographs of things are not things.
the rose, oh the once flawless rose
lies there now, beheaded.
it is just one of those metaphors,
you think yet again, refusing to see
the thin red line widening upon my neck,
throwing no shadow, as it were.
..
