the feral mother won't let me near
though when I call she hears me;
she never quite finishes her food.
She covers the bowl with grass,
then arranges sticks and stones
around it in patterns
I do not understand.
Only she knows what she means.
the paws of the kitten who survived
explore the keyboard
of an old piano,
striking notes randomly
like a row by Schoenberg
never to be repeated.
Music at the edge,
at the edge music
which will not harden into form.
A gust rattles the windowpane.
On the roof the rain is playing
its small silver triangle.
Yellow eyes stare up into my eyes,
unwordable as song . . .