The cats here are lean, step warily;
streets tilt their cobbles at a scalded sky,
slipways for the launching sun.
Cats duck the glare of white walls,
circle outer-edges, frontiers of scent, history's
Anonymous, we brush the limits
of language's sea-worthiness or purpose,
the simple numbness of hot stone.
Cats stroll to waste-bins, finnick
the mercurial rot of sardine heads,
their stink a gauze of denser air.
Cats outstare the day's exclusion zone,
watch swifts air-blade terracotta roofs
in a blurred heat-haze of wings.