This morning a cat—bright black—pawing at the mattress,
from where it came, I have no idea.And last night the sapphire of the Rachel's eyes
in the beam of the Greenpoint light.
we'd left out the conversation of past and last lovers.
as she left and I pretended to sleep.
Loping toward this burrowed borough among the drying winter's lesson
of old tropes, when I went out to get the New York Times.
The cat was gone when I came back,
a text read but unresponded.
I'm not sure it's any one thing, as my experience of these creatures is not.
And I know I am often too far from it or too near,
glad to be rid of it which is why it was such a fine gone happiness.