The Persian lies,
on the radiator shelf,
from the well of her being
an ever-deeper purr
perfecting her perception
of motion perpetual.
The iron coil below ticks, pops, clanks.
The cat blinks,
unable to see beyond ecstasy.
This is not love. This is heat
gathering above steam inside iron.
The cat yawns; purr decreasing;
easing into preparing, from a split-second
before the too-hot, to stand, stretch and leap.
The Persian, on the floor, shakes herself,
forgetting the perfection of just before;
squinting at, while waiting for,
the next attempt at the tempting.
This is not the flower.
This is the cosmos.
BIO NOTE: Deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror.