Earth Hour

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I’m here. I’m still here.

Still now and listen.

Miss Mischa in her cool

reclusion curls on the mat.

Has a feel for

creaturely comforts and has sniffed out

this spot, though nothing

in nature or that the eye

can see marks it as special.

The sort of animal

warmth that a cat

is drawn to in a cold house; as if

the sun, centuries back,

in a burst of candescence,

had danced there, and the glow of

its presence can still be felt,

or a young god happening by had stopped

a moment to shake

a pebble from his shoe, and found

his soul struck by a mortal

dweller of the place, and the bewilderment

of instant attraction, eternal

loss, still draws him back.

Miss M. has found it out. Basks

in the sun’s warmth even

at midnight; dreams of a cat

that sleeps inside the sleep

of one who, without waking,

from his tall cloud leans godlike

down and lovingly strokes her.

The Cup

In the one cup

darkness, espresso black

night, its distances,

its brief proximities,

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