Gita
Quiet is your wrath, little cat. Marsupial-eyed, impassive,
You sit like Rhadamanthus on his terrible throne.
We beneath your crouching glare are
Burdened by your malice—
As you lose interest
In us and
Doze.
You sit like Rhadamanthus on his terrible throne.
We beneath your crouching glare are
Burdened by your malice—
As you lose interest
In us and
Doze.
Could a cat’s eye be a shaped poem?
Sure, why not? Just might require some circular logic.