Anything that reminds him of fur,
anything that reminds him of clotted beginnings
in a dense litter of black and white.
The fleece recycled bottles make is mother now.
Answering his calls
I pick him up and his coat against my skin
becomes a part of what the night means.
I am not the philosopher
disturbed in the bathroom
at our unequal coverings.
And when I write on paper
in my dressing gown
he climbs my length abstractedly,
every placement of his paws
building an argument of its own.