The cat man of Aleppo (5)

The cat-saint, reflecting on one in particular, finds time to say,

“Rains can't wither tails any more nor a tabby's puff-cheeks, powdery ear, the cute crystal-moth nose, too--

no, not as long as I’m near.

She is to me all egress, a pure window on a hot dusty world, assailed by nothing so much as a light rain

and with feathers in her mouth, she even looks like nothing so much as some celestial mouser, nest mugger,

eyes two starry flea-wings,

gums of moist cooked cheese.”