A.S.J. Tessimond

Cats, no less liquid than their shadows,Offer no angles to the wind.They slip, diminished, neat, through loopholesLess than themselves.

He is in love with the land that is always overThe next hill and the next, with the bird that is never,Caught, with the room beyond the looking glass.He likes the half-hid, the half-heard, the half-lit,The man in the fog, the road without an ending _