A dribble of crazy blood from the mouth
of the crazy squirrel says, “I don’t want to
end up anywhere too specific.” I mean,
you should see this thing, the way it holds sway
over our apartment’s whole stairwell,
hopping up the steps as we’re hopping down.
Everyone wants to kill it, but I’ve never
seen anything more rabid with duende
and solitude in my life, choosing strife.
At first we tried to catch it, to let it go
by the Barnes and Noble. But it escaped.
I think it wants to stay here in the same way
that we, let’s say, want to stay here—
crazy for this space that we harness in fear.