I firmly believe the cat sharpens its teeth on a book of poems.
Warm, thrumming cat. I believe in thrumming warmth.
I firmly believe in certain words, in “teeth” and “biting a book.”
I firmly believe the man who lives in 20-C is dead,
though I see him every evening, though he walks
with fetching grace. I flatly deny
he was ever alive. I’m sorry and likely wrong.
Excuse me, I was saying, I believe in several things.
Washed hands are good, if only for the warmth.
I believe the way pigeons scrape
pink feet against cement.
I firmly believe once I was ten and the bee hummed “lament.”
When the bee stung, I firmly believed
the bee’s urgent heat.