The Mole
(from Wolf Gin Sonnets)

She was ignorant of the sky
and everything it could not hold.
She fell upon the green earth
to de-evolutionize into a mole.
As a Small she was the victim
of many carnivoroustic rites:
one day fleeing from a feline,
one day scratching off the mites.
From this vantage point of obscurity
there was no meaning but “to try.”
She tried to keep on living
as while trying not to die.
Music was but magic noise
too loud for little ears.
“Art” was just an anagram
for “tar” to hold her fears.
The calendar she counted by
had no days, nor dates, nor years.
Every awakening was a lifetime,
each night a gift of tears.
And soon she had forgotten
all platitudes of her former self.
She had left behind the luxuries
she hoarded upon her shelf.
For a mole must do what a mole must do
before the grass turns rotten.
Still the humans gaze upon the sky
and know not they are forgotten.