I am not willing to consider the cat dead, but I am interested in this poet.
On the Death of a Cat
In life, death
was nothing
to you: I am
willing to wager
my soul that it
simply never occurred
to your nightmareless
mind, while sleep
was everything
(see it raised
to an infinite
power and perfection)–no death
in you then, so now
how even less. Dear stealth
of innocence
licked polished
to an evil
luster, little
milk fang, whiskered
night
friend–
go.
coldhearted scientist وداد 
I love this! The final “go”? How is to be read? It may, as always (but even more so here), depend on the reader.
I of course read it univocally, as release / acceptance / recognition of the transitoriness of things.
This whole situation is awful because I don’t know if the cat died or if so, how or when. If I don’t watch out, what I’ll remember is this anguish and not the cat.
The poem seems to bring back the cat spirit.
no death
in you then, so now
how even less. Dear stealth
of innocence
licked polished
to an evil
luster, little
milk fang, whiskered
night
friend–
“go” … the cat in his mystery, since they are fascinating precisely because they are only partly in our world … the word seems to bring back the cat-ness of the cat, which I don’t want cover over with my anguish …
I think I’ll have to repeat this poem now, in that spirit:
In life, death
was nothing
to you: I am
willing to wager
my soul that it
simply never occurred
to your nightmareless
mind, while sleep
was everything
(see it raised
to an infinite
power and perfection)–no death
in you then, so now
how even less. Dear stealth
of innocence
licked polished
to an evil
luster, little
milk fang, whiskered
night
friend–
go.
*
Thinking of the cat as gypsy figure mysteriously killed somehow helps, too.
Mystery being in a mystery world.
Just so. Just so.