BY KEVIN CAROLLO
Sonic equivalent of fur. The body traps
its dud bomb and disperses the tender
udder thunder. A chair and a tree are
the same thing. A table has leaves, and
people also leave. Every thing leaves me
questioning: what wall art, which font?
No, tiny lion, I’m even unknowing about
in. In is of itself, uneven. I’m only sure
of purr. I only think in numbers between
one and one. Hurry is just one more thing
other animals do. O my, we is a genuine
broken record. We, perpetually deterred
by the indeterminate half-life of purr.
Take me, for example, not for one second
worried about the many steps in between
our little giggle of minutes, not even
stopping to look at the dog-earing animal
magnets or trying to get my bearings. I’m
only leafing through the lifelong photo
album to get to there’s you, there’s me.
—”Purr,” Thin Air Vol. 19.
Kevin Carollo teaches world literature and writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead, and is a regular contributor to Rain Taxi Review of Books. He has poems in Conduit, Court Green, Lungfull!, MAKE, Cream City Review, The New Guard, Ellipsis, and the anthology Collecting Life.
