The magic wool black carpet is enfolded between my legs while my body slumbers -
As if a Möbius strip, the blanket is imprinted with the memories of generations of felines who once sighed and dreamed in their cradle between these thighs of whom they believed was their one immortal god- all but for the nudging of these vast extended human limbs -.
The still young Siamese cat, this night, now nods awake, then to sleep in the coal warm and glowing impress of sorrow toward companions lost years ago -
And yet those ones so lost persist in the ghost nips of joy of the one just nightly here.
Such are the manifestations of perdurable comfort in these knot wools of forgetting- the nights of long entreaty in which legs not mine cling neither to belief nor to disbelief, but simply stretch, begging once again into the sequestered magnitude of this loving, sorrowing mangod’s breathing.
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