mouse and rat

The mouse is down to a hawk.

Mouse fills out a hole, puts the rat in apparel when suddenly.

They throw eyes at each other. The mouse the rat the other mouse clouds and the sky sited.

I don't get the mice moving. And bedding down separately; brown down and white down and downy found on their little backs. Soon the mouse sort of yawns.

One says see to the other. We look like hats on our heads.

We look to sea, the sun that spites downtown. We look peopled and left.

The green sense of moon.

The rat’s packing a back pack.

foundlings pluckings pieces of glass a brown dickey three buttons these socks and bottles and two towels on the floor more scraps for a rat facsimile.

And dirty. Was the air the sea the moon scooped in his pink hands, the sand was dirty, the birds, the first time we found rings around us.

The rat whitened the mouse rolled in soot the last mouse mouth cried to sea, to sew the moon, to clean up the hawks, all the reflections of them strewn tofore upon the watery cheesecloth.

Rings sing around the mouse's jaw, halting him at the collar. But mouse, don't have collars. And rats, don't too.