Stalking

My Prospero does not need Plato’s thought

Or Jesus’s.  No Buddha is required.

My cat ignores the mouse that he just caught,

Walks past it where it, crumpled, lies expired,

Ignores it since it isn’t any fun

Once crushed.  It isn’t that he doesn’t know

It’s dead and doesn’t know what death is, none

Of that.  He shrugs.  Death doesn’t have to glow

With theoretic meaning.  He grasps well

What death inside is—gets it, wise.  He naps

In shallowness not dreaming quite of Hell.