THEY ARE PEOPLE TOO

I am not confused by these facts as they flutter across a world I cannot begin to speak. Each phrase has fallen short of the air it would breathe, and has ditched to the sides of trenches I did not dig. There they sleep and memorize their terrified fingers in the mirrors of their steam engine sweat gland exhaust fumigating nuclear plant stationed within rooted structures through dirt down into the basements of subsoil and atomic rock. There a rook rests dormant, laying eggs, waiting for weather to change channels in the changing of season’s clothing, beneath the skin of the clothing people wear and to enter through the veins, sewer systems of desire and penetrate the robbed surfaces of stone—hoping to break in and steal the book of memories off a museum throne to bring it back to the children that are yet to hatch below its warm and concentrated body of blisters; swelling until exfoliating puss leaks from its beak and rivers from its mouth down the confines of its nest into the conclaves of a pond. Creating a steady flow of water, inventing the waterfall. And in the pond a frog dwells reciting a story to its grandchildren, but its grandchildren are cellular, and on this level nothing really occurs except the exchange of roots to roots and their language no human could ever over hear without hearing escaping from its holes and becoming lost in the storm of the wedged transferences bridges are parallel of. To drive over one and not hear what it is to over the side of something because over the side of it has become normal, a familiar world of what small people can’t abide. Television replaced the largeness of size into the palms of a comparable rate and the shame that magnetically slipped within reach and gripped the slices of a pine cone and suggested these intervals are equivalent to the loads a truck carries from harbor to harbor brining us plastic cups equals what it is to grow up and find a decent duck for dinner. Yet a duck isn’t a souvenir for take over, they are people too, people who watch and lose every ounce of attention to what held ounces in a cup because ounces desire to leave too, as all does when it is not felt with the precision of tree branches swaying in gentle breeze during early April.

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