Nude Mole Rats Stage Raids to Steal Pups

They do. It’s true.
One nest, near-clones,
Robs next-door nests
To swell its horde.

Huge hordes rob more.
It’s an old tale
To nude tale apes—
In the charmed ring,

All is peace, calm,
And lots of work.
Past the ring, war,
Raids, death, the world.

From the first cell
To the last game—
You raise your wall;
You’ll use those gates.

Das Nichts Selbst, Echt?

Can you save the thought
From the words, the words
From the beast who wrote

In a hut, in trees,
Then marched from the woods
To speak for the lord

Of beasts who would rule
The world, at whose whim
Clouds of beasts would die

Like gnats in the woods
He’d set on fire? No,
You can’t. The lone words

Will save their own skins,
Split, hide in the mouths
And thoughts of fresh flesh.

The thoughts keep the stain
Of the beast, that’s plain.
It’s in the blood, blame.

But write past the end,
The closed rhyme—the thoughts
Crept back in the hut,

Like gnats from the woods.
Where no one can speak,
There no one is mute.