Tuesday, December 24, 2013


Lemon-cat, brown-white silver mask,
the morsels of time are not for you to eat,
they fall from the far-built ceiling
in little strips, galactic wisps
that barely make your whiskers twitch,
you welcome the fire's heat from a near table,
the doors of the place are patterned in your stripes,
there is no symmetry that does not find us
wounded, uneven in the feet, in the breast,
in the faintness of blood that only
powers toward death, and we feisty
with brightness of eye until dullness
threatens the striking power of all we affection,
and the quaintness of your weaponry is kept
in microcosm, and to be petted
your blinking tows all hitching lights
to their own seasons, so that we may follow
each furred version of one another,
with all the perturbed differences that creatures carry
not quite disintegrated into sleep
electric company.

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