Another dead mouse. This one has a slim black-and-yellow wasp
Nuzzling its innards, the mess of intestines garnished with a dabble
Of blood the colour of balsamic vinegar, and on its miniscule nose
A cherry-red clown-spot, the brief perfection of the whole body
Only now become a thing to look at, its greys and whites, faint pinks
And flushed magentas, and the fine black line of its eyelid, stopped and
Subjected to my gaze like this while its inner life ( the whole matter
Of its little mystery) becomes public property, a gift for the forage-wasp
That still clings, nibbling, when I swing the body by its brittle tail to send it
Into a space it makes for itself at the foot of the flushed forsythia hedges.