I walked the village at four o'clock

It was raining then, I remember. No, wait,
the rain had just exhausted itself, spent and lame. But
the sun-baked ground still wanted its
deception of softness, and called back the sulphurous spirits
of just-dead rain, clouding, mulling, till the ground was
a lake, shimmery, misty. Those silent twirls screamed at their
steaming resurrection.
And just beside this open ground,
newborn mice lay limp on flower stalks,
lost in bushes. They had skin like petals, pregnant
with fur; they were content consumed by
lidded oblivion, their eyelashes slivers like sickles
guarding the gates to those full round orbs of wonderment.
But they were sleeping, but they were sleeping. And I walked on,
and saw the buildings around me all shut up and
huddled, like galaxies, light-years
between each cluster, and
I was there in the middle. Even in their groups each building
was a star, apart from another at a distance
only stars know, and I was there, the
lone hut in the village. I was cold, the wind was
mourning the dead rain. But even then its death-dances were
lifting those very spirits up. It will rain again, and then the mice will
awaken and their eyes, beautiful eyes, will gaze in
lovely wonderment.