by every blessed day
Why does he like the attic of a decrepit and aging house?
If his fingers make a hat about his head
Why does his pulse beat him so low that we walk and think him dead?
If his loops hibernate in crazy figures half the night
Why does he tilts among the trees that face the corner light?
Why does he brushes up against a thing like screen that we re afraid about the length of human vision and what eyes could have seen?
Then to re phrase Theodore Roethke
Then something amiss out of place disjointed in plain observation
As mice with wings wear a human observation and grit of tortoise wit
Shrewdly unveil the peculiar footprints back home
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