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Silently advised to let alone the impulse, I’ve coffee on Grand Ave, I’ve crushed, individually, each ant heaving & laboring at the hill by the leg of the concrete table. To be a dog for ten minutes &, without scrutiny, lap up each terrible one. Those two closest on either side with sightlines of the individual deaths dealt out by my brave toes stare otter-eyed. The soap-faced woman reading or the dress shirt & lunch. They don’t see the absence of option. The terrible taste at my toes, conscious. As the dog I’ve vanquished the taste, & the soap-faced woman & the dress shirt & lunch, they laugh at the stupid dog & his concrete scrapped tongue.


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