Now is the globe shrunk tight Round the mouse’s dulled wintering heart. Weasel and crow, as if moulded in brass, Move through an outer darkness Not in their right minds, With the other deaths. She, too, pursues her ends, Brutal as the stars of this month, Her pale head heavy as metal.
Ted Hughes—
I understand the space in the brass Airless no contempt, or ability to hold it Tightly, round spring coiled around nothing The Yo yo ing purpose of mice, mouse Pursuits of the steel wool cut, itchy Red abrasions cover heaving chest, loose In the leg, furthering no where special Connecting the four corners of the Earth Ill conceived screams, curling under sharp toothy, to punch holes in the can Scurry the string through, running the telephone line Hello’s dreams, fears Echos of clay and thud The moisture in the ground is mud
The moisture in the ground is mud
The pooling reflects no light And gathers the snow drops With the remorse of it She will surely die there If only a smiling face to make an impression