I wrote a cat

I cannot write about cats
the words they slip through my hands
in slippers of fur
on the floor
from a warm tail to the whiskers
like a door half-open

what does a cat know
that I wouldn’t reason
that escapes
my humanity
and my poem
more than its anatomy
what does the world shine
into those slits of sight

but the cat’s shape beneath
the blank page
and I quickly throw ink on it
the page-cat-shape
and a few black spots remain
behind
caught by the scrape of the neck

there it is
behold
my poetry on a cat

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