Truth lies like a truncated branch
blocking the door of a junkyard mouse's flat.
That is a very jarring notion indeed.

Hesitant to staying truth, hesitant to lodge;
the informed call on past gaze and past phase
for their feeding, the new individual
perfecting a new utility belt.

The new individual may be simple and torn.
Torn, because what is considered simple
could be pooled in the gap between the wedges
at the bottom of the Milo milkshake tetrapack
which the straw cannot find no matter how meticulously you jiggle it,
despite its stark authority, and you're undecided on  
whether you should throw the packet away.
Simple, because your motor function,
simply put, needs to be less awkward.

Does not make my cluelessness at functioning any less true.
I was struck immobile because I almost got run over by a mouse
(or a rat, I have not googled their difference),
but I admire the schoolishness of that terror,
its being real.