Bastille Day

Her only soulmate was a mouse
which came and went as it pleased.
Why is it only animals are truly free?

What thoughts could this mouse converse,
neurons focused on crumbs,
miniature galaxies of taste,

devoid of Tabasco and time.
Yes, a clock with no hands, no numbers,
no roundness at all.

The Mayans were wrong
about everything cyclical,
are the smart ones nearby to debate?

The mouse flicked its mustache
and scurried into a hole in the wall.
Emily turned over in her cot.

Her dreams burst forth,
two white horses being pulled
by a gilded chariot,

the forest thick with robbers,
hills slippery as ice,
foliage snickering ankle-wise.

She woke up in a cold sweat.
The night lay in a puddle
convincing like a tower.