The Cat
While you read
the sleepmoth begins
to circle your eyes
and then—
a hail of claws
lands the cat
in your lap.
The little motor
in his throat
is how a cat says
Me. He rasps the soft
file of his tongue
along the inside
of your wrist.
He licks himself.
He’s building
a pebble of fur
in his stomach.
And now he pulls
his body in a circle
around the fire of sleep.
by William Matthews
from Sleek For the Long Flight
White Pine Press, 1998