The cat's a Maine Coon
three walleye doze—they are
unconscious now, encased in pond slush; a deep, subterranean
comfort comes swooping down,
a smell like rainfall in the desert . . .
She sees herself as too convex—the sky must
purge itself. The moon's a pair of mittens,
Affection, in all the smaller ways, that it's
there, that we almost grow younger with it . . .
been hovering in one place