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the small american mammal lied

the coldest nights are the quietest

though the litter chatters around my feet

like the arctic teeth of an almost corpse

and the gas settles close to home

glassy in it’s  welcome

 

the trees, taut, still brittle of bone,

clench every desperate sinew

as fleshless fingers on a wintered birch

gnarl a carpal tunnel to the council’s moon

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