Forty seven years in the moment, the look

                Most fully focused fixed

                                What my eyes never could see straight.

Everything rested in its place,

                Without desire or stress,

                                Voluptuous shadows with lives of equal value.

The stoned articles I had drenched with life,

                Stories I told as categories,

                                Once intimated, sovereign in their own right now.

I tried to live as sharp as that,

                Keeping my eyes pried open,

                                Cleaning my windows using death for a rag.

I was a cat, cool and aware,

                Who ambled on the alien streets,

                                poised without expectation.

But no life is as sharp as that.

                Gravity gives the cat no wings.

                                Words come out and come to rest.