I see your face on the red pillow

the creases of age–

what we call wrinkles–

as a sign of growing wisdom.

I sit up in bed

a little after sunrise

and watch her young gray fur

rise and fall

with each breath

the likeliness of past lives

written on her body

and in your face

as the breathing

between two sentient animals

man and cat

become one.

Her ancient cause

and your karmic curse

bleed love onto a hardened Brooklyn morning.

And it’s only then

as I watch through

my own two windows–

my soul–

that I can



burst with promise

for a new day.


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