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No. 24

Wren Anting

Dean Young

How small I am in the fly’s eye
but many, many.  How cool I am to the fire
but tasty, tasty.  You lie in the dust
with your wings open and the ants clean you.
You stand under the waterfall and scream
all you wish to obliterate.  This is my absolution,
my attendance policy.  One book copied
by sloshed monks full of dragons.
A flask of tiger drool.  Don’t let
the avalanche come to rest
even if it requires life-support,
it will be too sad to bother with music.
Keats lived on Dean Street when in med school.
He held them down, he held them down
and mopped up afterward.  The best death
is to be crushed by the color blue.
The best portrait is done with a feather.
To be hunted down by magnesium
and recruited for its strict flash is inevitable.
Charity is rain.  At my shoulder and knee
I am ripping my membrane for elevation.
The stars keep leaning on me.  I feed
the turtles cut-up pear to aid
my return from Hell.

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