Stray Cats

I tipped my head and all words fell out leaving only imaged poems and

after a while
they came back the words
like stray cats remembering

a saucer of milk
and now they stay.

To have words back how does it feel? Better
though a bit tangled even so
they seem appropriate and fitted.
Writing has become whatever it becomes.
Letters fall where they do
puzzling their increasing numbers

processing some whimsical sense
gathering in crowds
word and layer
color and shape
all bow and circle and look away
as the newly acquainted often do
I say to word  layer  color  shape
I am not ready.
I do not know how to look at this that
which stays like adopted cats.