A man’s hand releases bread crumbs
that soar into a flock of birds distant in the moor
a clock wise stir moves in the cup, then taps on the side
ready to be consumed, sweeter than Hemlock
poured from a tap
drank in the last room of an old house
the night moves like a bow
waiting across a set of strings
the cars move like chunks of drift wood
in a black current
someone’s blowing on a harmonica
out of tune
down the street
and somewhere else

as I arrive home
and find my cats waiting eyes
they’re friendly
but know it’s time to feed
they begin
making a single purr
between them, that’s entwined with the sound
of their banquet between bites
cleaning
every
last
morsel.