By Adam Sass

All got up in furred satyr pants,
And whipping tail lashed on for the ride,
Youíll crouch,
Creep for cover, 
Yowl an hour,
Fill your long days with dallies in
Couched and cushioned
Then dance out for a bit of
The old spring and swat,
The old lunge and plunge,
The old killerís whirl,
The old lunarchic game,
Slashing at porchlit moths
Cicadas and katydids,
As thought cedes to deed Ė
For didníts arenít in it
When doingís afoot
With all its claws out.

Owl-eyed, night-yearning
Haint, Iíve seen your kind
In glassed zoo cases,
The lights dimmed,
The hall hushed, until some sticky child
Trilled, ďI donít see it!Ē
And mommy pointing and sotto voce
Saying, ďThere it is, in the back.
See? Itís staring at you.Ē
And the child staring back,
Transfixed, unvoiced,
Thrall to those two cold fires.
Then they vanished,
And the case was empty again.

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