Chat with the Whitest Cat   Béyaz, you Mùscovite, bliss to your fùrs, sprawled at our hearth with its coral chaleurs.   Cat, are you dreamy where dreams are rehearsals Of cats in their snowdrifts all famished for morsels.   Cat, are your manners unique or sub-lunary? You taproot in murder then tongue at your finery.   What’s season for cats? Can cattishness tremor in catkins of springtime and catspaws of summer?   There’s brass in a samovar, brass in your manner, I call you my pussy yet know you’re a loner   to trot in late summer when paddocks…