A black rat eats at my grey matter, it always has,
black rat doubt, black rat lack,
that cheesy lack of self petting. What black rat does is hollow
me out, make bed of hair and bits of thread.
A black rat is resting warm in the recess,
no hunger, no boredom, no door in,
no door out, just two windows,
just right and plenty of stew.
A black rat does what a black rat knows,
its beetle sheen a deep dark thing,
curious and furled.
A black rat is peacock plume-less.
A black rat is a clever feather, to be and not to be
what cannot be seen or see, only black
because there is no light. Likely blind,
likely I could not find it if I tried.
A black rat is a played game, worn
board, incomplete, unplayable but impossible to toss.
We are woven into the nest
and it would tear if we test how deep it’s set.