Poetry

Why is this your cat?

The cat sitting in windowless time is
a tree in your garden. The cat
sitting staring through your backdoor glass is
the butterfly it ate this morning. It
does not want to go outside it
does not see it is only looking
for the trees in the garden it
has taken root among them in its
window box of sun and tile it
has lost its catness it ate a
butterfly this morning and now there is
no window and no outside inside only
gardens of light and a strange urge
to fly but when the door is
opened it falls back tawny like a
leaf dead from the tree it has
lost itself to, gone, out of time.