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Maybe MAG
There should be a switch
or a lever
welded to my ribcage.
One that I could pull
in times of distress
or when I’m feeling particularly lost
Because
as I watch the subtle morning dew
slide across a single blade of grass
like the microscopic snapshot
of a heavy ocean wave,
or how my infantile neighbor
scoops earthworms
from the soggy dirt,
preluding archaeological ventures
below a misty mountaintop metropolis,
I fear
there is little to write about.
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