Friday, September 2, 2016

To the Cat His Kind from the Womb Born Blind

Fleabus is slowly going blind. Twilight is worse but always she can't parse the necessary grays. We're not sure how old she is. Fourteen, no, sixteen, no, thirteen, no, fifteen. We didn't write down the date we brought her home, remember how old she was when she arrived. We don't know how old Napoleon is, and he was born in our shed.


Stevie Smith

In the flame of the flickering fire   
The sins of my soul are few
And the thoughts in my head are the thoughts of a bed   
With a solitary view.
But the eye of eternal consciousness   
Must blink as a bat blinks bright
Or ever the thoughts in my head be stilled
On the brink of eternal night.

Oh feed to the golden fish his egg
Where he floats in his captive bowl,
To the cat his kind from the womb born blind,   
And to the Lord my soul.

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