The Poet as Rodent

Mud is the water, 
One and the same.
Up does not exist,
Under shade, filtered dark-
-Light of the sky,
Which does not exist.
Bearded, hooded, mechanical night,
Only dendrites in underbrush,
One wet, others salt
Another clog, another enemy,
Tunnelling always, falling back,
In the sunk ground. 
Another sound, another enemy
As in the sky,
Which does not exist.