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There is a cat upon my sill
taking great care to bathe
each arch and bend
of its gliding form.
Dappled fur is luminous,
stretching in the sun. The colors
roll and tumble, showing shades
of wheat in gliding waves.
The tab of pink
and grit
pulls to corners, tracing
up and down like the
smoothing of a tablecloth.
In the yard, dark and carnal,
the grass is dewed with tragedy,
the evidence of violence
beneath a tree-cast shade.
As the cat continues lapping,
its cheek unsheathes a
stab of ivory. Silently,
it tends to each arch
and bend |