[ this cat, that cat ]Brent Goodman
Outside there's nothing but a crow's feather twitching in the rain gauge. Inside the windows unpack their thin white shirts. She clings to his cologne like the damp black hair stringing her bare shoulders. This cat, that cat. A ceiling fan debates the air. She traces return on a teabag, boils oolong in an antique shop kettle. A spoon is not a mirror. This cat, that cat. Her Nokia says nothing. His tiny plane pierces a hole in a distant cloud.
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