Does the cat understand the weight

of a book held to the heart,

a page set to turn? I am an

imperfect creature, there is

such noise in my skull. A page

took me to the quiet and a

momentary peace

in this heart. But the cat

knows only the crumble

of the spine and the warmth

of the light

through the eastern window,

her nose pressed ever so tenderly

to my wrist as I turn

another page.