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The cat-iris greens, the reds of the eyes

The dull blinkered yellow of anticipation,

Decisions made in a vacuum, air swirling like stars.

At the station, the roar of the tunnel, the hollow concavity,

At the crossroads, the mossy vandals of tracks

maintain their vigil and mark out their territory.

The last vestiges of civilization are teased by candy cave carvings,

Come into my lair, you'll find yourself dizzy and gilded

with the sugar rush of uncaring goodness, sap like water from a mill stream.

Uncivilized manners, uncouth expectations, untoward forward leanings

we wriggle like daffodils that are suddenly released,

made up of nothing more holy than the space where we once stood.

We are enormous hoarders of pride, dreams, captured scenes,

of goggles staring down in the river, floating anemone and honeysuckle wind,

of surfing by ourselves upside down, sideways, duck tall and gooseflaps up.

While we wait for the rush of the falls downwind and dirty with dark lines,

the logs pass by like the flume ride at the fair,

we are on our backs staring, dolphins bobbing snouts at the sky.

The last swells of the day rise on high winds and crow's-nest heights,

soaring ever above us as we sidle like slithering things,

reaching our arms then holding our bodies, our ribs, our heavy hearts.

Tomorrow we shall make more decisions, stand like guardsmen

after pacing back and forth but not entering the castle proper,

tomorrow we shall finally storm the gates, conquistatores, playing with fire.

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