Anthropophiles

Schrödinger’s cat must be absent
Under Napoleonic Code—

Ni mort, ni vivant—just absent,
More than departed, less than dead.

Once, it was a real feline, wild,
A predator in the forest,

But like the dogs and rock pigeons,
The too-easily collected

Cattle, greedy goats, placid sheep,
The self-selecting fleas and rats,

It ended up running with us,
Our curious, carious cat,

Generating its pocketed
Absences around the planet,

And now what is it? A species
Of luminous eyes, liminal

Affection, neither here nor there,
Neither art’s nor nature’s, a pain

Not wholly useful, not wholly
Not, neither wholly here nor gone,

A where-the-hell-did-it-get-to
Sort of creature, like love and faith.

Who cares if it’s alive or dead?
It’s just a byproduct of thought

Experiments, like all the camp
Followers, the anthropophiles,

Presences left half-wavering
Once they’d heard your ancestors’ songs.