rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Cat and Slug

A tom cat was just prowling outside my window, closed now against the cold which has returned. Still, I heard his loud call. My old cat barely stirred herself. The day when such things caught her interest is gone. She is content to nap, until I head toward the kitchen. Food! That gets her interest. I fill her bowl, and, of course, the other cat wants some as well. While they eat, I go out into the night. My flashlight reveals the bright yellow eyes of the tom, as he rests on the large, flat rock in the front yard next door. When I turn the light away, I can sense him watching me. I fetch the newspaper from the driveway. When I return to my door, I flash the light his way again. The bright points of his eyes are still there. I am pleased to share the night with him. He, most likely, condescends to share it with me. Indoors, my cats, sated for the moment, have fallen asleep. Briefly, I feel a twinge of envy. How pleasant it must be, to be so at ease in the world, so comfortable within a supple, furry skin, to see in the deep shadows, to leap with such grace, run with such speed, vanish from human sight with such legerity. The thought fades, and I return to my keyboard only to realize that it is not my body for which I wish the agility, and capacity for repose, of a cat.; the wordless space mocks me, and I know that I would have those attributes for my sluggish thoughts.



SACRIFICED MAN

by Pierre Reverdy


Nothing but blue spots in the corner of a sheet
Memories of smiles fade away
A head and thorns on a crown of arms
Heaving Shoulders
At last the mill moves
And the mountain of brass wire
Slides around the world
Somewhere doors open
On ordered numbers
Gathered by name
By height
Rollcall
Over the whole mob
Rain splinters of glass
Or dew
The dampness of the shores penetrates to the middle of the driest soil
And beneath their shivering dance the houses
Rotted by sun and chill wear away
Then leaves are born from young girls' fingertips
Eyes open under moss
Now and then feet crush eyelids
Then curtains are drawn still lower
The head turns and hides in the hollow of the arms
Memories stir
Night goes


--translated by Kenneth Rexroth

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