My mouse curls up to sleep within me
nestling into soft cedar a cold and tiny nose.
A struggle transpires predictably there
between two old forces: rain torrents
against my walls; deeper she burrows,
harder she squirms.  Away from the nonsense
of loving or unloving--away from
the question.  Now it has been years,
and I can no longer say where she is.
I think she has long forgotten
the way back.