Village

The forsythia bush

bends its fingers to catch the darkness.

Fingertips like ten small,

black moons holding eggs.

If you go into the forsythia bush,

the heads of rats imprinted with

cat teeth.

If  you go further inside the darkness,

rat legs spit out by the cat,

tattered legs moving slightly.

The heads of the rats,

their short and broken legs,

hold onto the darkness

preparing to leave for somewhere.

I call this kind of animal my village.

I call this kind of animal my village.