the cat glides under my shadow
a cadaver-cold-nosed ankle balm
her woollen tail sliding dark-ward
beckoning down
or
statue still upon a hare’s breath
head tilted in question to my answer
she looks straight through me
to where the truth is
or
as a storm ferris wheel
and wound up tight
she ricochets off the quarrel walls
and
then
as puppet-master
she unstrings the swan-lake day
and curls to sleep and sleep
to purr the night away
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