These Cells Are Passages

My pages are perforated,
my time here
the ink
that stains the side
of your hand.
This is my guess.

When we are generic
we are also strange:
beasts in slacks,
dress shirts
gobbling up
dinner with our hands.

The poor animal
died by our front steps.
We'd seen him
that morning
not knowing he would be there
by the time we got home.

We run in such
tight little circles,
a universe
so small it's only a front yard.
We sleep
for good by those who love us--

warmth in
tight little circles.
We are all so strange,
edges perforated
in movable
space.