Taylor Graham Rat No more skitter across spaces in the garage. No squeak repeated into silence. The corners keep their shadow crevices. The bait station is a hoard of bright blue grain untouched. Poison. Piled boxes guard an emptiness, a shiver deeper than January cold. On Saturday, a gunman killed a stranger in this town. After long illness, a poet- friend has died. A quiz: Shall I mourn a rat? Something isn’t that was alive.

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