Haiku for the Cat

The fever is on me now.  
Since morning I can do nothing  
but crack pistachios between  
my thumbs and listen  
to the woody tinkle of their shells  
hitting the floor.  
I mutter haiku at the cat 
who bats them as they fall. 

As antidote, someone sent me 
a new book of poems today.  
Carefully, I unlimber its spine  
the way my father taught.  
A few pages, front and back,  
press them gently flat and open 
not unlike a trembling groom  
opens the darkness of his new world.  

I ravish the book,  
peeling each poem from its page 
like a slice of mandarin orange.  
I breathe the delicate scent, 
take each one into my mouth and  
taste its bitter but nourishing skin. 
Then, with a violent push I am in—  
oh tang of understanding—

And give myself over to this rushing 
awareness: something greater is ahead,  
something beyond, out of my reach,  
something I want more than anything  
I have or am or ever will have or be.  
This fit of longing and discontent 
comes when I am most fulfilled, 
most—dare I use the word?—happy.  

I need to clear my palate, refresh 
my head, so I put down the book  
and crack more pistachios.  
Make up more haiku. 

Oh and here comes 
the cat.