Quite mad, Kate

Have thoughts like a dog
Pat and scold them
Until they behave
With that desperate, Pavlovian drool

There is no news today
Just stray cats and poetry
And the crisp meringue
Of clouds

If I wilt in the disdain
Of your withering heights
Perhaps you will forgive
My awful pun, bleak and mad
As it is, with thwarted love

A bird will steal your voice
If you let it

Nevertheless, a hand full of crumbs