Squirrel dreams

If I was a tree, I would shake, shake, shake,

My stumpy, thick trunk to keep squirrels awake,

Until enough leaves fall down to form a bed,

On which they can fall and not bump their head.

Squirelling business can be exhausting

And taking a nap will help their defrosting.

I’d look over them and eat their dreams,

Dozens of delicate brown-green streams.

Quick panic dreams are like fast food,

They leave a greasy taste, fear and dread stewed.

Dreams of eating and eating some more:

Your ordinary feast that comes with a boar.

The dreams of squirrel babies sweet and short,

Oddly contain scenes straight from Agincourt.

Sometimes the dream that I’m gorging on,

Comes to a halt and then it’s just gone.

That’s when I know that one has died,

Maybe an old one couldn’t breathe on its side.

I don’t know if what I do hurts,

If it’s in the center or just the outskirts,

Of their life and if they even notice,

If it’s the leaves or the center of their lotus.

I can’t ask and I can’t know,

I’ll keep eating and eating, though.


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