The Cat’s Nomenclature



All throats are coated

There is no clear speech

It is, a cluttered emptiness

Search for words, understood only

By mimicry, representation sounded

And it seems that voice knows

What part of the night

To split open wide, with ruckus

Within the apex of all silence

The place trust is set safely

Tearing open the deepest of quells

Sleep knows nothing about dreams

Because, fast comes the first utterance

And the sun sets a measurement

Ironically, making no sound in travel

Rays search, though, it’s light

The beam that warms the spot

Where my cat lies, twitching in dream

Unaware of how the orbits

Slide quickly across the floor

And I swear that cat is Eliot

Where he touches, nomenclature

Fur is found, forever adhered

To my town clothes, categorizing

The attempt to name things, out loud

He sleeps whenever, mumbling

In his laziness, it amuses him

Especially in daylight, a purr

Twitches my ear, meows must be written

Down, in a dug-up hope Hieroglyphic

He follows the sun or the furnace

Whichever argues for the warmest spot

I, can only watch, knowing

Speaking to him, kindly, about our star

Who circles who, and why, misleading

His four paws scamper to me

When my throat clears

But it’s the sound of me, questioning

Breaking the heated silence

I measure names, always have

I repeat the classifications, audibly

Wars have names, Desire is called

Something—moves in response

The Sound, love knows all our names

Chapters titled and files misplaced

Eliot cries as cats before him have done

Identifying the unspeaking warmth

The clearness of his speech

Simple enough, if one understands

The name of every star

That has split the night wide open



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