I thought maybe I could go without my glasses,
but I just can't.
Bedtime story.
Mrs. Hempel, who was a beggar for her milk,
carried a tackled beaded glass green purse.
The easy doorway sniggered in her curse.
Her cat, who rode her shoulder, had no bulk.
It was a paper cat.
His wafer bone sighed as the wind puffed in his little cage.
The merest whiskers dignified his age.
Milk from her pitcher wept upon the stone.
His breath upon her coarse grained
high set cheek, provisional as breath of the newborn.
His tender claws kneading the old wool
worn to a sieve for the wind were delicately weak.
The pair were ribs and all.
Two empty pots without a fire, Mrs. Hempel and her Katz.
I'd rather forget them.
Kinder the dead being dead.
It's like the babes in the woods, where the leaves so red
cover their dirty faces.
And the birds whistled as tears were shed.