Cat Poem
A soprano sings. The poem
limps on. the cat yawns. It feels
the air with the fine
wires on its nose. It yearns
to wear away the white
marble of milk it commands
morning and evening; while I
wander on my hands through the stars, burning
my fingers. The soprano sings.
A cold wind blows through the holes
in the poem. I shiver. The cat
moves a long curved dagger
and carefully pierces my skin.
distant red supernovas appear
amongst the negative spaces
of the poem; an island universe
dots an i, Henry's comet crosses
a t. The cat sings, the soprano
yawns, I bleed. The poem limps
from the page, and drags
its weary way to the saucer
of milk, and drowns itself.Henry Graham
(Illustration "Le chat a l'oreille coupee" by J Bourdillon)
