the hollow missal of a broad-minded priest
Nothing was left of me,
the mouse scurried out of
his hole only to shrug off
April’s fair, white nest of
fever’s few grey days
while this monk paddles
with half of his wand,
drifting up the creeks and
runnels of his mind’s
last thought of a mouse
being led out by the pink
of his pear-shaped nose
just as the spring trap shuts.
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