Man and Mice

A pointillist point pontificates
on how many men it takes to paint
a portrait of dramatic, carcinogenic war.

In my closet,
a gun,
in my mind,
strange acts of sex and survival.
Distinguishable by rudimentary colors,
indistinguishable by sedimentary feuds.

In my Freudian slip I attract fireflies,
corpulent river deltas,
expunged scales of seething grain.

Behind the house a man grows mice
to furnish pale places with plague.
He will slide home when the death
evaporates like hail in heat,
find himself in my wet caverns.