I hope they can mean something to you.
Beggar's Prayer-- by Emiliana Torini
PILE OF FEATHERS
--by Gerald Stern
This time there was no beak,
no little bloody head, no bony
claw, no loose wing--only a small
pile of feathers without substance or center.
Our cats dig through the leaves, they
stare at each other in surprise,
they look carefully over their shoulders,
they touch the same feathers over and over.
They have been totally cheated of the body.
The body with its veins and its fat
and its red bones has escaped them.
Like weak giants
they try to turn elsewhere.
Like Americans on the Ganges,
their long legs twisted in embarassment,
their knees scraping the stones,
they begin crawling after the spirit.