I want to be a cat. I want to be

the snowfall in Jersey after

a hurricane’s ruined feat. Know
this poem follows a template: where

I take your words and stuff them

in my mouth. Here I grow hungry
and walk short distances

in the San Francisco rain, cupping my hands

telling the world that this is the only way
to hold rain. To view the poem through City Lights,

wondering why I’m never used to reading

at daylight. I think about the future,
no deja voodoo that no one can

out do. I am at the store now buying

live fruit: opening it with a dull knife, watching
its seeds spill. Here: take your words,

take the seeds I spat –

make a tree the cat can sleep on.