Twilight is the hour of
cats;
they are exhaling the day,
a black something, crossing
slowly the pathway,
playing choo-choo train
with their eyes.
The cats are carrying away
the moon.
They are speaking by way
of pictures;
on top of the roofs they
are laughing at nonsense,
ridiculing the aging wind.
The bird hunt is being postponed.
The cats know there is a
limit.
They are assaulting my house
of cards -
devouring my letters, unread.
I'm writing: We should laud
the cats
in the hour of twilight.
|