In all its humming but this time the cringe, the invention
of forethought of portent—the uncomfortable discipline necessary
to bolster prediction but look up—there are cities in small rooms
of houses, there’s travel for pleasure or pleasantly; this all boils
down then to bargaining—once after
 
you married, a cat crossed the doorway, you fried eggs
and you’ve never forgotten the rabbit it pulled
by the neck and the cat, fending, but look up—there are cities
in bowels colonies of things so small they’ll take you
over—you keep letting your blood pressure wane.
 
The weight of an empty house is the same as the innards
of the rabbit its organs intact for now and the yolks
of the eggs from the farm down the hill, brightly insistent.