There are thieves
in the mind, their
dens in places
we’d prefer
not to know.
When a word
is lifted from
its spot, we show
no surprise,
replacing
supplies with
provender.
Out here, it’s
the tiniest stutter,
the subtlest patch—
an affordable loss
of no significance
whatever to the
plastic surface of
social commerce.
Should a bit vanish
from an event, we
likewise manage.
But back at the ranch,
a hoard is building.
The thieves are
hatching some
fantastic plot
made out of parts
we’d laugh to think
that they thought
matched.
Kay Ryan’s most recent book of poems is
Say Uncle (Grove Press).
...
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