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Category: Writing and Poetry
Mice have been eating my old poems
Mice have been eating my old poems.
Once cut crisp,
straight white edges
have tiny tears.
The smallest of holes in words.
What does a vowel taste like?
What part of my poems
were a paper crib
for a litter of mice?
Mice babies:
little millimeters of life
growing
between sheetrock,
behind milk crates
crammed with books.
Delicious!
Mice eat all poets
good and bad alike
and their teeth are always growing.
So here's a poem for a mouse,
or mice (there are always more in hiding).
Poems keep being written
and time is always hungry.
All skittish creatures
seek shelter,
tiny comforts and distraction.
Every mouse dreams small dreams.
2:43 PM
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