In sun-morning-new-warmth
those
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.