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We gnaw leafy greens at the tops
of the tallest trees, lick the remnant

rib cage and speculate smaller,
smoother species, the kind

we haven’t discovered yet, the kind
that is a figment, some otherness

our mothers told us our fathers
invented. That animal lives

in the dark. It is too short to reach
the tops of trees, too cold to climb

any further. This is what I’ve come
to believe: there are far too many

of us. I’m not sure where to begin
so, please cross-reference sidewalks:

smell of, after thunderstorms—
Genesis, metaphor, microbiology.
Posted 10/20/11
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