In sun-morning-new-warmth


we call them ‘cats’, and ‘small’

and ‘with a silken grey

coat and soft white chest’

but they are not—

they have no names.

They are small suns, a

small universe each burning

and beating away as it does.

That one—it is clearly (as clear as)

a thinking life-thing,

but blessed not to be

an over-thinking one.

It must have eaten already

because it plays, then sits

(made of God in curvature, surely)

then soaks in another sun.

It cannot pause—in fact, it is gone.

I believe I am part of it, too.

And its-eyes-my-eyes become one long laugh

“You also move?”

The same bleeding-soft-light-sun

pulses us asleep,

pulls us out again.

(That rhythm? That is TIME.

so yes—it is relative,

as your mother,

your brother moon,

as the one and other unnamed creature

roll around, conjoin, separate

tiny proud panthers; pantheists rejoice—

we relate.)

Poets, I think, are the bravest—

it is our very saying we must unsay.

I tried to lay these words flat

on the ground in the sun

with the padding galaxies;

They did not pause—they cannot.

We have much to teach each other.

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