Cat Dance

Here, maybe, you can see a cat dance,

as words get thrown in pixie dust,

and a reader is a magical thing to be,

a way to set aside one's entire life,

to, if not believe, at least consider

the instant movie at the suggestion

of a cat in full samba or ballet leap.

When we scour the Earth, reduce it

all down, words fly in swarms against

our body, which we hold as real, and

they tempt us to discard this anchor

for outrageous flight, for soaring away,

until mice sing loud in squeaky chorus,

while dogs howl out a country song,

and a cat can do whatever a cat wants.

There's then a ballroom in your head,

so distant from every day, it's tragic

and unforgivable and taking you

to wonder sometimes if the real,

restrictive as swaddling, is chosen.

It's OK. Stay here. You won't disappear.

Yes, adulthood is a fraud. We're all 19.

You just got bent, then sought out age

as comfort. Out of fear, you closed.

Be young and unafraid. Words turn

breath into the lone sorcery we know.
Yes, the cat dances. Now, watch it fly.