Animals are infrequent traitors, only
honest atop boat, malicious
when washed to sand. Here I am,
said God, and there he was, and there
we all were, decked out in purple shirts
and cargo pants, standing in rows like cows
awaiting supper. This was before
sneakers, before skinny jeans, iPods,
domesticated parrots. We slept in wardrobes,
cupboards, kitchen stoves; we held clocks
to chest like children, never spoke
of age, door knobs, kindly tourists.
No sheep to dream of, only
garden sheds. How to begin
again, hands cupped in prayer:
where have all the mice gone? Surely
crumbs are for the weary; how else are we
to find small things, to decipher them.