Catching One

Though the mouse opens its mouth there is no sound.  The head is full of gray space & the body careens as if at the end of a momentum.  The mouse is largely apathetic to greater things, no nose for news, no favorite fall TV show, only a vague indifference that tells us it is dead, is a dead mouse.  For the alacrity of the feet has ceased, & nothing suggests the mouse wishes to explore the mind, wander its outer banks.  The mouse lies sideways on balsawood like a surfer, anticipating waves with its tongue out.  We are rightly afraid of it, though, for it’s proof that we are the harshest monsters to that which we most dimly comprehend.

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