That white cat who shat
in my yard I saw her later
road-kill flat – I take it back
the night the orange tree
bloomed - for whom
was that perfume wasted
of course I stepped in it
but only cross-legged later
did the smell assault
overhead the flowers
sighed their forgiving
antidote and smile
I left my shoes outside
a sprig of white blooms
filled my rooms and cried.
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