I just saw a film first conceived near the kiln
At the school by a woman called Nora,
Near the pots and the wheels near the streets near the fields
Filled with Santa Cruz fauna and flora.
The seat wasn't cheap, and the popcorn was stale,
And yet bumps on my arms fomed subtitles in Braille,
For this art was apart from all that I had seen,
As each line and each part and each act and each scene
Put soul to the surface, a window now cleaned
Or made silver, though only a screen.
And now cats in the street seem to meow as if pleased
By the film by the woman called Nora,
And I know it's just me, for the cats are just pleased
At a mouse that they've caught, or yet for a
Sense that they get from the footfalls that hit
On the ground from those leaving the theater?
Could cats know higher art from reactions they sense
In the human filmgoer or reader?
No—cats do not follow clues, so these mews know no Muse,
They are meaningless, yes, in the worst way ...
And yet—wish the artist happy birthday?