Over the matrimony of Benedictus
and of Huxley’s essay
on the burnishing fit of evening,
you fell away in quiet light,
your self apart from thoughts of both of us.
Most consumed, you cried
and whelmed alone in an apple rind:
the only unspent corner.
At the sight, I too was bound by a sudden expanse
fraught only with very moments.
Caught in briar fetters, we were,
by a kind of golden art.
I might swear you'd vanished.
But stranger than rapture,
you are found awake and palpable,
settled without effort in a nook of blanket
across from some stuff arranged
and resembling me.
Author notes
A stalwart feline in bed,
and yet here, you’re barely knowable.
This mind of movement is yours,
and is neither discomforting nor feigned
nor conceding to any of the blame
that man has marred you with.
My darling, strange rapture,
you are improbable.
In a list
Comments
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"you fell away in quiet light"
Completely stunning work, Jen. Gripping, moving, a silent form of evolution...
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