Sunday, January 13, 2008

The Mole

blindly he eats,
devouring all dirt bold
enough to brush with his feverish
whiskers, in a perpetual forward
destruction, all briefly becoming part
of him as all has first become dust,
entering and exiting as one
might suppose, marking
its progress by his own
distinct digestions, until,
nothing now to
chew, his burrow thoroughly
hollowed, the blind one ceases,
purposeless, in the light of a sun
he neither sees nor feels.

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