A mouse broke its bones on my neighbor's floor; I was called in mercy, as the angel of slaughter. My heart was the water in which it drowned. Days later, the wound closed when I met Circe: my silverish lion's stony fringe burned away in smolder. I left her starry thigh, her eyes like cask strength rye; They live, we sleep - No, we're awake, and the night is slow.