I buried the cat who died at the foot of the church

A poem.

beneath the yowling cold christmas deep star awe torched beauty night I found him at the foot of the church his last bloody breath glued to the icy grass rigor mortised in a final mad dash for what a cat might call hope I didn't witness his death & for that I’m thankful the only ones who saw the belltower songless in the dark & the canaltown driver desperate to reach home the driver who at least possessed the decency to move the cat out from the road I don't know if the cat died in the road or on the grass that's not important now I scooped him into a trash bag maybe the warmest place he'd ever known weeks ago I fed him at the end of the churchyard first & only time he let me get close squatted watched him scour the can I'd give anything to feed him again that memory felt important on the walk to the garden the cat heavy in his plastic shroud my sleepless heart shuddered as my shovel opened the cold soil I don't know if I dug it deep enough graves are never deep enough I don’t know how to dig a goddamn grave I didn't think the cat deserved to be alone before I found him I was wasting my life on frustrated love maybe if I didn't dwell on stupid shit I could have been there stroked his clean tuxedo sheen told him it was okay listened while his last howl climbed past the houses & trees & hills & yes I am making his death about me in the morning I need to explain why I buried a street cat in our garden I don't have any more answers than you & no poem will ever help me find them