O wild cat,
flat on your back with
your head on my
arm, old-man
belly exposed and
legs occasionally
twitching in their
natural dreams,
your serious claws
knead the breast of
instinctive sky
past my book,
through the trees,
beyond your masterful
display of the slippery
art of surrender and we,
who understand such things,
are the Ancients once more.
