The fur and glue were not enough. They were pretty

enough. Just not clear enough. Or maybe

too clear. No. It was the blind glue they used. The kind

preservatives and artificial sweeteners know best

how to avoid. It was the opaqueness of the trees

along the path. It was the déjà vu; the maze of Modernist,

lost shadows stuck structurally before a phase. It was

intensely tender – too tender – little bits of fur

kept coming off. The glue stuck to my hands

like blood, the feet wldnt stay down, beside their own

shadows. My hands were literally not mine any more,

only the coating of hands.

Little stupid hands.

It was enough to fill a whole night

with the memory of grief, but not a whole year. Definitely not two.

and it was treasonably sweet. It was a glimmer,

then a squeak of hope but, finally, snuffed out in daylight

with a simple ‘Would you look at that!’