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 )
Copyright © Michael Miers | Year Posted 2015
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