What Prey To Call His Own

The housecat

leaves the cult of his home

and freezes up

in the humid storm of the world.

Eyes filled with lightning

he stares six ways at once

hearing his compass
ticking into unbelievable

distance.

The porch concrete a plateau,
the lawn is forest,

the sky endless dream.

Suddenly he is no hunter.
Wider gods have

caught him out.

Fire in his ears,

the fallen angel sees

his once-thundering voice

crushed by its own

lack of echo.

As the door swings true

behind him,

he adopts the habits
of a monk
facing the empty

wind.