After the Fork Disappears

Camouflaged predators shifting against old bones
in byways of the brain
come as no surprise to hypochondriacs
and the chronically lightheaded
but to a more oblivious mind
they provide a shock to the blood vessels,
a quick, short freeze in the tepid flow
of daily life, and after that
all manner of pieces break softly loose ―
unnoticed stalactites of regret
that formed by micrometers for twelve years
fall, without clatter, to the mental floor;
stone-grey egrets materialize
out of ethical walls and flap into the distance,
gangly legs trailing beneath them
like double exclamation marks;
and from unexpected windows, five-course meals
disappear in gradients of memory, the fork being the last
thing to go

after which the small brown rabbit self
having been for so long an expert in shadow art
finally flees, careening
against the shale walls of the private mind,
realizing each time (but always as if for the first time)
that it is being hunted down the roads
of home.