His rumble, the way he tears
at the carrion, then leaves a hive for listening.
Tusks bang and glimmer in the sunlight. Can’t stoop to interpretation.
I press my mascaraed face
to the fence and see my relation—
he’s mangey, has his pounds.
There’s an eon that beckons me back, and recognizing the swipe
turning into blazing reason, I tell myself
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