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Poetry

Look, the Human Is Shrinking

It’s normal to do it alone, the feint-and-jab
           of forgetting. I believe in only what I can recite 

from memory, like the ninety-nine names
           for thirst: soft-hell, root-torn-from-soil, rain-

X.9

Yes, I’m that Martial known all across the world 
for my elegiac couplets, hendecasyllables,

Bower

Consider the bowerbird and his obsession
of blue, and then the island light, the acacia,
the grounded beasts. Here, the iron smell of blood,
the sweet marrow, fields of grass and bone.

Fox and Crow

Fox spots Crow in the top of a tree.
“That carrion she pecks must come to me.”
He ponders how to ply his wit
And award himself the whole of it.

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