I found a mouse today eating the book
God. Should not have happened,
As, under ordinary circumstances,
The mouse had shown an aesthetic proclivity
Only towards plastic. Different sorts,
Clear, white, blue – a tube to house
Line, a bucket to house squirrel
Corn, the broken handle of a spray pump
Bottle trigger cobbled as a keepsake
I might use sometime down the road.
Maybe it was the words of miles about
History and misperception that gnawed
At the appetite, something easily and not
Sated. There is something to be said for
Morning glory still a-bloom at dusk, still
Extended to the horizon’s drop. Maybe
It was the shelf of storage boxes that housed
The book that housed the words
That tried to house the God that attracted
The razored teeth of the mouse, sharpened
On a healthy sense of communication,
Grain and Round-up. There are hawks
About this morning, and a sparrow found
Its way into the kitchen through a door,
Propped open against the chime of an alarm
System to not wake this woman I love.
How a mouse will eat God,
How a hawk will move a sparrow indoors,
How this woman I love says, I do, too,
How the morning glory opens to touch
The sun and, finding it at horizon’s
Precipice, decides to fall into and follow –
I count hours as embraces, embouchures,
Embroidered ozone disturbances that spread
Her eyes across the western stratus, and returns
The nibbled world of God to whole.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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