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11/26/2009 5:08:43 AM
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Cats met us at the landing-place reclining in the sun to check us in with a momentary glance, concierges of a grassy island. (Attila's Throne, the Devil's Bridge, and "the best Byzantine church in the world", long saints admonitory on kiln-like inner walls.) And lunch in a shady court where cats now systematically worked the restaurant, table by table, gazing into eyes pleading "I'm hungry and I'm cute", reaching front paws up to knees and always getting before zeroing in on the next table, same routine, same result. Sensible bourgeois wild-cats working with the furred impudence of those who don't pretend to be other than whores, they give you not the semblance of love but simply a look at their beauty in return for food. Models, not escorts. They lack, too, the prostitute's self-pity, being beyond shame. And we lack what they have. Thom Gunn
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