Of Mice

Barn-storming; they anger
for a lighted tip and roll
with the thunder: so bright.

Rattling wood and vibrating
for good, the spirits dance with
each convulsion.

Yellowed and slippy
when the doors let in air
and smoke and
we breathe in the pollen with haste.

Pieces of feeling
gathered in a net:
we are all that will ever matter.


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