The Tuesday Poem

The Speed of Cat’s Eyes

His eco-ship purrs silver-smooth

past shores of bastard-amber stars,

chases the veined twist of tail-lights,

long spaces poised for sudden red.

Earth’s skin, spinning culture

at past the speed of sound

around its centre, skims the sun

many thousand miles per hour more.

He turns up his thoughts in stereo —

lick the cream from these lips honey —

sees movement from the passenger seat,

a reason to steer with his knees.

He stirs honey into chamomile,

skins up, scribbles a quatrain ending —

no hands, see? Her mirage smile,

her eyes that flicker. Her invisible fur.

* Paul Casey is the director of the O’Beal reading series in Cork. His first book, home more or less, was published by Salmon last year.