there are rats in the roof
I do not get them out
their sound
is grit cascading
I do not poison them
as friends do
(they gnaw the wires—
and indeed who wouldn't? but I relish the grating
soft round lengthy and their cover-of-night
treats) forays
above the burr of the heater onto taut bare limbs
ticking steps like of winter's wisteria
sticks hurled vertically
brittle bodies I never see their
teeming through limbs their
the tight cool space firm rogue bodies
between roof or toasty coats
and thin ceiling
cats doze below they'd have no truck
have not linked with my mincing strokes with my
the higher traffic to thoughts meek advances
of prey their jaws they make their raw dark
do not go snicker-caw renegade life
at the rats while the drowsy
as they strip the willow sleek interiors below
or dosey-doe close by poach nicer creatures.
not like they do with birds
(the insipid birds)
who need to be warned
with a wide palm to the window
insistently
when flat lithe death
decked in fur
gutters towards them
instead the rats
make the roof
into rainstick
as if weather's weight shifting
lurching structure
turning orders upside down
sometimes so urgent
dirt chasing dirt at speed over dirt
soil's hot acceleration
I should try to kill them instill
law above my head
above all
else