Her every move
is grace itself
modeling a sable coat.
Both the subjects and the queen
of the country of her self,
she roams the endless reaches
of her queendom, distant
from the border
of domesticity
as she’s ever been.
Of the winding down clocks
of the lives of mice,
she fondles each brutal tick
as if it were her lover.
In the hour of night,
with the mellifluous
little engine
of her purring,
she assuages the pangs
of dead silence.
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