for whoever's cat it was

                the kitchen floor suddenly awash in
white. spilt milk, before bed: a sort of myth.


                                at first glance, it seemed
there wasn't. but, of course, there was

in fact, a lot of blood. a wet
shadow-stain leaking (as does dream

through sleep) into the awe of starched, but
jaundiced, light of the street

lamp. a sullen red music. and the idea
i'll admit, occurred to me, at almost the same

instant sean mentioned it—that we should
back up; do the merciful thing. tires,

after all, have little conscience—
remember their violence only so long as it is still

tread-wet as a frothing mouth. they
remember only in reverse. but we went on.


                and now our sleeping—it takes
the shape of a greek myth; turns allegorical.

anxiety: a fistful of cotton. my mouth: a breath
of hair, a taste of salt, and then a moist

eyeing. you stir and breathe, unknowing.
unaware of any of this: that

from the back seat of the car all there was
was the sound. the instant

commotion of contact, the waves
of softness and something hard meeting;

the undulations, the song of that sort of physics.
but i cannot wake you, cannot speak

to you of this. instead—my tongue thick
and fatigued with worry's milky skin—i lap

your unsuspecting neck; feel the pulse
of your sleep: its appropriately hidden tune.


Matt Robinson

I find myself writing more and more about (around and into) fracture. Broken or displaced things. (I'm allergic to cats and less so to dogs, and I'm not sure if we'd hit a dog that a poem would have resulted or that (in fact, I'm almost certain of this) something nearly at all like this one would have been what developed.) Poetry, perhaps, has a lot to do with our allergens—how they shape us and our responses to, our interactions and relationships with, things. I do know this: if I ever get a dog, his name will be 'chunk.'