Wynnhurst Street

swift, creeping cat, bellying lightlessly across the backyards by night a Cimmerian shadow with dun short-haired quickness not so easily caught along the mottled sidewalk the bounds of the city blocks, cast slight beneath the dappling yellow of the street lamps a coloring almost unseen ( for its own sake, unseen ) a feline faith dining on mice heads and rape wine, and long adapting daydreams desire but bits and baubles of unfettered fate free and stupid to winnow its own blue ambit and way, its own quirky arc blue guitars tuned with cat gut, oh strings of mouser stomachs and bladders twisted, tight weaves to seized and plucked notes ( by fingers that once strung the bow )