These are my cats.
They come
from
a land that Moraes called
'the place where seven islands squat/
by the filthy sea.'
Kafka lives with Chutzpah,
Solitude with loneliness,
the joker with the thief.
I christen them names
that reflect
the existence of opposites
and the redundancy of
a wasted imagination.
These are my cats.
They look with eyes
that glinter faintly
at poetry books
with square edges.
Words have no meaning.
Instincts do.
They come
from
a land that Moraes called
'the place where seven islands squat/
by the filthy sea.'
Kafka lives with Chutzpah,
Solitude with loneliness,
the joker with the thief.
I christen them names
that reflect
the existence of opposites
and the redundancy of
a wasted imagination.
These are my cats.
They look with eyes
that glinter faintly
at poetry books
with square edges.
Words have no meaning.
Instincts do.
