Poetry

The cat jumps, a shadow falls from the wall
and pools on the floor--
not like the moon's, but like its own:gibbous,
into oscura, into what we fail to see
file fifers in time running on into meadows and on.
Can you blame them for seeing the beautiful use of things?
Good--the greater part of it, anyway, must lay in
openly sanctioning useful delusion.
You, on whom these bloom and choir like birds,
isn't it so?
And you, Maestro, strangely credulous
of shadow lorn as Venice at noonday,
living on garlic, numbers and sweat,
viewing even past blunders threads to a perfect eye,
say it is so it is so.