The Leopard and the City

Rain fell out of the cloud of time. It made no argument. Droplets blotched a blond meadow. Out of the pattern a leopard arose. Its eyes reflected the cloud of time.

An old small city is my soul, such as it is. The leopard watches over it, her breathing and her heartbeat syncopated. I do not visit there as often as I should: Work is elsewhere

in factory-towns of will. When the small city seems to call, I take a road curved round a cliff. Up there sits the leopard. The ledge is blue. Arrived, I seek a sanguine plaza. People

I have tried to be loiter there. They slouch and lean and gab. They know me well. Out of the rain in a baked café, we share a meal. We speak of the leopard, become one person in the cloud of time.