He And Cat As A Portrait of Grace

he held himself
in a way that meant he
have been a
or a southern gentlemen.
when night chose to
cast itself
deeper than
wells of oil his eyes would
be stones upon the
white only
when the shadow of looking
into them moved off
catwind entwined
the shock of certain color.
He-rabbitred and green-heaving
along the spatter of
grass holding grace in antiquity.
there is style.
there is the one of
night of one of self
rabbitself catself.
there is in that
stone of eye the
oxidation of copper
and all that lust golden

cat as a portrait of grace and cat as he.

holding in that way
the unknowing dove right
upon his spotless shoulder
if he had been in the military
way Ares would have
flocked like Odin's ravens or
the two small moons of Mars.
he is in that type of stance.
there is forever in hidden places.
night does not mean night
if there has yet been day
and he spreading dark folds
of satin cloak apparent
to all who envision day
as the answer and night as the question.