Four Spirits On My Shadow
It is Crow, then
Banging on my red front door;
Beetle roots under the log of my
Fine house, while
Mouse disquiets the boards of my floor:
Paint peeling splintered pine
Heaves with every move.
Trout blows bubbles in the bath,
Its emergent face
Sings a makeover.
With flies.
Moose looks in the open
dining-room window
but I shoo it away:
“no room, no room!”
end
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