Sometimes I've a concrete block for a mind,
ragged-edged, cool, heavy, flat and formed,
still and stacked, grey and glued to time.
Sometimes its a python, king of the grass,
still for hours and then swift to its quarry,
gulping the fat toads in the landscape of its eye.
Sometimes its that flight of birds that turns as one,
black, silver and black, down, out, up and back,
carving itself out of itself into the self of the air.
Today I am a mouse, who lives inside my house,
wanting and waiting for crumbs of my bread,
that I steal when I sleep from the crust of my head.
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