I The house was dark. The only moving thing Was the eye of the hamster.
I was of three minds Like a habitrail In which there are three hamsters.
The hamster whirled in its spinning wheel. It was a small part of the condominium.
A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a hamster and a tortoise and a bulldog and a nine-year-old boy Are one.
I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of wanting seeds Or the beauty of having them, The hamster digesting Or just after.
Incomprehensible things were written. The hamster ignored them.
O tan men of Hollywood, Why do you imagine golden beavers? Do you not see how the hamster Scampers around the feet Of the women about you?
I know Mexican accents And lucid, unrepeatable curses; But I know, too, That the hamster doesn't care What I know.
When the hamster burrowed out of sight, It marked the beginning Of one of many sunrises.
At the sight of hamsters Flying in a green light, Even the neighborhood weirdos Would cry out sharply.
He rode over California In a glass hybrid. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his Prius For a swarm of hamsters.
The wood chips are moving. The hamster must be breathing.
It was evening all afternoon. The hills were burning And they were going to burn. The hamster sat In his food cup.
Apologies to Wallace Stevens.