I know the function of a wall
and the wall knows this function,
but the mice do not.
Within my bed a void and within this void
me, listening to the faint scratches of tiny claws,
and other, smaller noises
on the horizon of frequency.
In the living room, my parents choke
on whispers, discussing words that mean death
and deaths that mean waiting.
I know how to keep a secret
and how a secret is kept from me.
Two nights only, the shuffling of small bodies,
the soft scrape of their clawing
like a letter scribed with pencil.
Space, in its largeness, exists to be filled;
everything else, to fill it.
The mice were trying to tell me something.
They were trying to tell me
there were no exits.