Mouse


I was a mouse waiting to sing
my poems for other mice to hear.
Another mouse approached me
to ask, "What is your poetry about?"
So I told him, "It is about cheese
or the music of our scurrying
from one hole to the next."
"Then it is nothing we do not
already know," he replied.
Perhaps he was right, and mice
have no need for poems.
After he scurried away, I was
left to retreat alone into my hole
and wake up from this dream.

from Oneiros

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