After the ground is burned and
its black skeleton trees removed
the machines scrape
till it bleeds yesterday,
worms rolling up to escape;

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Going Woodo

Day 409
They told me
When they came for me
The man-
His thumb, I bit it off
He needed twenty-four stitches.
Imagine that.

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Between, time
freezes, the perfect
points of the un-astered stars
unmoving in their
fixed array: a field

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