Crouched behind the mandolin,
tail twitching from under the body
of a guitar precariously leaned
against the arm of the couch,
our cat hunts a felt mouse over
and over again. It's dead I say
over the lip of a bottle. Kill it again.
And she does. This kind of certainty.
How the face resides in the marble
block, already smirking. How every
stone holds a face, a hand. How
we all await the chisel, the claw.