Cats

Cats move everywhere
through the city at night.
They own blackness, the stars,
and the cold of January.
I own the headlights on my car
and a coat with bird feathers in it.
I rush to sleep, full for tomorrow
while they run.
I dream in clean and sacred scenes
where cats sail with me,
show me what eyes and ears can really do,
while somewhere below,
blood runs through my veins,
food wanders about tunnels
and synapses blink like empty stoplights.

Succito has gone on another alms round
in damp England, with nothing but a bowl,
to know what cannot be owned.
He could get pneumonia out there,
or rabies.