other animals

When I'm feeling lyrical enough when 
the lawnmowers have sloughed off when I can 
loaf through what remains of my Latin the 
sine qua non of my vade mecum, sed,  
noli me tangere, for a wheezer I am 

while more dead tongues loll and tell of 
loss and I never did find a 
comfortable spot there and heard Hamlet 
was really Grendel which was a 

mistranslation of Enkidu 
but I turned away. I heard an old voice 
that never was and never will leave me 

alone. What can a mug like me do with 
new eternal forms gushing everywhere