Cat Jones

The figure x shows a deepening sky.
A map of peerage.

A dying star pulses, and is resolved.

Who is righteous overmuch.  There were
plenty of years. Was said to be tractable,
if the tractability condition was fulfilled.

A little blood, in the ocean.

One can make out, in black, the escorts
of a pilgrim caravan. Then the faithful.
Then the moment when the road brightens
and takes flight.

The wind of this world, our turning.

Little baron, spreading, softening.




This poem is an assemblage of very large and very small things, and I suppose conveys a feeling, as when looking at maps, of being in the sky.