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The extent of my sweetness: a hard
green rectangle flavored fake apple –
a Christmas left-over found under
dirty white couch cushions, disturbed
by all the intentness previously lost,
burned in that I don't give a shit smoke.

Baby prattles with their “la la me me”
indistinguishable from any other, but
through a unique timbre, their specific
need, even wrapped in concert with
others of the same ilk, “la la me me”,
we, and they, not us; la la, ha ha;

I have watched bees zoom around
each other while having nothing
to say, except “buzz, buzz” as bees
do, forgetting the yard while flying
in their tight circles – the stamens
dripping in colors for their legs,
the pesticide cloud, or the microwave
chatter beamed through a hundred eyes,
and they go on, on like thin magnets
– the la la, ha ha, buzz of everything
but.

Thin little dead things on automatic trails
mapped already down in a few spins,
splat in your own color today if you can
survive any actual sight of its true inside.

I am too busy gathering my own roadkill
back as one body to be eaten of itself –
more freely again since the last mad leap.