Moonlight slept quiet beneath the grandstand,
like flower petals, like highway snowstorms, like each thought
not of November or battlefields. My moping climbed
the Pegasus inside my chest which sped me to you
in this last century of petrol, with my socialism wanting.
Prayer from a Mouse
Dimensionless One, can you hear me? Me with the moon ears, caught in ice branches? Beneath the sky’s long house, beneath the old snake tree, I pray to see even a fragment of you— whiskers ticking a deserted street, a staircase leading to the balcony of your collarbone. Beloved King of Stars, I cannot contain my animal movements. For you I stay like a mountain. For you I stay like a straight pin. But in the end, the body leaves us its empty building. Midnight petulant as a root cellar. Wasps crawling in sleeves. I sleep with my tail over my face, enflamed. Oh Great Cataloguer of Snow Leaves, I pray that you may appear and carry every piece of my fur in your hands.