watching the landscapers | shovel red mulch | to improve soil efficiency | I think
about my biomass | eventually we all slim down | into pine needles | tattoos
disintegrate | into poems that struggle for solid ground | I protect my neck | with
your throttling hands | sweat like a pilgrim | during a blistered excursion | I want to
have faith in something | pictures of me knock-kneed in church | stern in my
falseness | I store eyelashes | in a hollowed-out Barbasol can | welcome to
Jurassic Park | if nature finds a way | my life’s work is your life’s work | our sun
dreams of a flickering blindness | beating our brows with mouthwatering light

taken into the blimp | provided by Metropolitan Life | Snoopy printed on both
sides | the world looked like a garden of misunderstanding | I was cold | wanted
to slam my hand on a table and often | mention dementia | how torrid and
lovesick went each beat | my father traveled a lot | excavated rare gems and coal
| from mammoth caverns | he once said pay attention son | during a business trip
to Austin | and ripped wings off an errant fruit bat | everything can be dismantled
| I take comfort in knowing | insurance wagers | that every premium thing | retires
and stops working

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