the drawing room
In the museum, time freezes
and tilts The squirrels, who have just
begun a game of cards will forever
be casting their chips and hedging
their bets. Edging tipsy and stumbling
through the parlor. No sooner
have you rounded them up, no longer
can you tell if they are living or dead.
Their red tails stiff, but feathering
in the breeze from the window. No
sooner have you locked them
In place than there are more of them
populating your dreams, wielding
swords and dinner knives.
Their bones long gone, their eyes.
What’s left inside them, a tuft
of hide and bits of sawdust
That arranges the party.
Then invites us in.
