XI

In my backyard the noble form of a deer kneeling

spent twenty years dying from the arrow in its liver.

In my room an owl perched impassive he is either

my solitude or my boredom: the only things I know.

Under my floorboards the mouse fearless of glue and contraptions.

I fumble, mice escape my traps and so does absolution.

Under my roof a bat, creature ensconced in frail sleep

undreaming in a darkness whose friendship I will never know.