There are too many moonless nights
on account of the clouds, nights
when nothing is illuminated,
when a poet stumbles blind.
My heart is not a lantern.
It is a hard, dark place,
a burned-out star, dense,
dull-eyed, stealing fire.
A cat is a whole different
animal. He sees in the dark,
kills the shrews and eats
everything but the whiskers.
He could write us a poem,
alright, with his sharp claws.
He would say killing is a kind
of love, a swift and tender mercy.

About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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3 Responses to Moonless

  1. I am not certain I agree with your cat (that killing is a sort of love) but if he is poet, and it seems he is, then I will defend to the death his right to declare so!

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