in my lap. The air of her
house cat-uncaught birds, unfound mice,
non-trophied chipmunks, lifts and she lightens,
hovers, losing air without having leapt
her years in my house, in our laps,
in the bowls of dry food and one and water
and new thoughts of sleeping space, the Agatha
finding her first life not landing this time, to settle
as she has done
all her years.