Most time I waste I waste
Between the sheets tight
under my chin, the cleft
of old love thrumming the threads.
Where was I? Where are you?

My little cat straddles a shoulder
purring through my breathing,
breathing through my purring.
And pain.

She stepped through the ice
last year, a black-and-white gasp
of dirt and fleas and verbal tics
that spoke of years before a fat
fire somewhere, somewhen.
I would not release
her for money or love, or the practiced
promise of a palm
on my thigh.

- Nancy Bolle