wet powder

our room is a cat who plays with us
our words, slow as scorpions, spy
our memories caught in tree branches.

we are surrounded but not suffocating.     yet.

our cannonballs kept suspended
tonguing matches behind our teeth
they aren't visible from our smiles.      yet.

the hawks behind our eyes stay perched
winds will change only at our call.
the claws of us are still sheathed.      for now.

our kettle still brewing steam we sit at our table in crowns
and do not speak of the closing curtain's
onward march.      not now.

tonight we dine on dizzy moths
agreeing on the illusion of a flame.