The mouse is a very silky bean
and quiet. I hunt it in my room now.
Its shadow darts in and out
of paper and plastic. Can it know
that I know as cats know, think
that it has made me think of how
vowels behave, slipping through
those consonants, rustling
with only a hint of teeth to them?
Save that vowels do not “behave,”
are mere sound, mere outbreath
as here: my mouth with o, large
enough to fit a mouse, I fear.
