The cat is sitting on the table, on two pages
of Wittgenstein quotes copied by his mistress
in her indecipherable handwriting
as mysterious as Wittgenstein.

It is the feel of the paper, its warmth
that slowly accrues on skin and fur
emphasises. Never stay up on the
barren heights of cleverness but come

down to the green valleys of silliness.
An hour in the sun and then a leap leaving
some words scrunched. Whereof one
cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

Such simplicity to a cat who will not leap
onto a chair and then the carpet until
something better offers: his mistress passing
near his dishes, recipient of a stare.

The limits of my language means
the limits of my world. This can be
conveyed from mind to mind.
The cat's kibbles fall into a dish

and Wittgenstein is warm beneath his fur.
One quote the cat agrees with, nothing more:
I don't know why we are here, but I am
pretty sure it is not to enjoy ourselves.

Pshaw! Has he not heard of transference:
philosopher to philosophy to imbiber. Nothing
is so difficult as not deceiving oneself.
I do a service by sitting on his sheet.