The Mice

(after Georg Trakl)

after Georg Trakl

Into the brick abandoned house the tired mice run.
Curious slivers of moonlight peek in.
Icy wind scatters pages of black leaves
From an old Bible left on the floor.

Pink bellied and starving, they devour Acts 2:1.
A percussion of white squeaks begin.
In the demolished ribcage of dirty brick,
Their eyes shine like dogs in wet moonlight.

Smoke belches from their little mouths:
Pained and pentecostal, they know truth.
He watches from a broken window upstairs.
Damp echoes, footsteps, move slowly down.

The mice chase him as I reach a splintered landing.