Mole, angel-dog of
the pit,
digging six miles a night,
what's up with you in your
sooty suit,
where's your kitchen at?
I find you at the edge of
our pond,
drowned, numb drainer of weeds,
insects floating in
your belly,
grubs like little fetuses bobbing
and your dear
face with its fifth hand,
doesn't it know it's the end of the
war?
It's all over, no need to go deep into ponds,
no fires, no
cripples left.
Mole dog,
I wish your mother would wake you up
and you
wouldn't lie there like the Pieta
wearing your cross on your
nose.