trapped in my bedroom is not a mouse, of course, but a small gray bird with a tufted punk-rocker head. As it head bangs against my window, it doesn’t seem like the kind of bird that would appreciate being called a tit or a mouse. It’s a curse to be misnamed, and worse to be trapped where you don't belong. I opened the window wide and waited. The bird clung to a lampshade before high-tailing it back to freedom, back to a place where there are no such things as names or species, walls or windows.
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This is a lovely poem. Thank you for sharing.