The Rapture of the Rodent

My muse, a little demon rat

with fur as soft as moon beams

She stares at me when night arrives

and haunts me in my daydreams

When still surrounds and dark descends

her star-lined ears appear to gleam

Her tiny nails that scrape my skin

grow unending then, or so it seems

She lays, pressed, to solemn bars

her being drenched in heavy cream

A milk that dulls my sharpest thoughts

variations on a gray theme