Poetry by Willie Smith
The electric fan into the ceiling sunk whirs.
Behind closed eyes, head bowed,
heels of palms propped on thighs,
seated, I seem to rise into the blades, thinking
the meaning of a finger on a switch, of the change
taking advantage of my blur, into the lap leaps.
My eyes open onto those of an animal staring up.
The moment of near to nothing passes,
the flecks and rays around the cat’s pupils,
although with finer clarity, exactly as they were.