Spectare’s thoughts absently
caressed his anger
like a suppressed familiar cat,
half-forgotten as myth. Its threadbare
fur prickled. Its claws bit,
for company, and he felt
imagined pain his owned, his very,
and went out into it, the story,
donning a voice like a coat,
to stand before the self-sure,
feeling as absurd as a man
with a cat on his head,
in the bared town-hall square
like a box orator shouting
at enmities of air:
There are still stars unnamed to us, and more.
(I've been nudging this around in the past week - David Bircumshaw)
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