Saturday, April 2, 2016

The Death of Rats

A mind composing a poem is a mouse
Nosing, exploring, to find its way out,
Whether from trap or lab or gothic pile
Of other squirming mice doesn't matter.
The persistent intent is flight from fright.
Death's in the past. The future's extinction.
Meanwhile, claw, scrabble, and gnaw at the cauled
Impossibility of life, born cloaked
In a veil, a shroud, an obstacle cloud.
Some mice get out. Not enough for a mouse.

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