Blue Moles
1
They're
out
of
the
dark's
ragbag,
these
two
Moles
dead
in
the
pebbled
rut,
Shapeless
as
flung
gloves,
a
few
feet
apart
—-
Blue
suede
a
dog
or
fox
has
chewed.
One,
by
himself,
seemed
pitiable
enough,
Little
victim
unearthed
by
some
large
creature
From
his
orbit
under
the
elm
root.
The
second
carcass
makes
a
duel
of
the
affair:
Blind
twins
bitten
by
bad
nature.
The
sky's
far
dome
is
sane
a
clear.
Leaves,
undoing
their
yellow
caves
Between
the
road
and
the
lake
water,
Bare
no
sinister
spaces.
Already
The
moles
look
neutral
as
the
stones.
Their
corkscrew
noses,
their
white
hands
Uplifted,
stiffen
in
a
family
pose.
Difficult
to
imagine
how
fury
struck
—-
Dissolved
now,
smoke
of
an
old
war.
2
Nightly
the
battle-snouts
start
up
In
the
ear
of
the
veteran,
and
again
I
enter
the
soft
pelt
of
the
mole.
Light's
death
to
them:
they
shrivel
in
it.
They
move
through
their
mute
rooms
while
I
sleep,
Palming
the
earth
aside,
grubbers
After
the
fat
children
of
root
and
rock.
By
day,
only
the
topsoil
heaves.
Down
there
one
is
alone.
Outsize
hands
prepare
a
path,
They
go
before:
opening
the
veins,
Delving
for
the
appendages
Of
beetles,
sweetbreads,
shards
—
to
be
eaten
Over
and
over.
And
still
the
heaven
Of
final
surfeit
is
just
as
far
From
the
door
as
ever.
What
happens
between
us
Happens
in
darkness,
vanishes
Easy
and
often
as
each
breath.
