Friday, April 26, 2013


The fake bear has a honeyjar bolted to his stomach.
His eyes are a spasm of idiotic pleasure.
His clawless limbs like glassy slugs,
his shrunken ears without fur or passage
for the music of breath and forest.

Nearby, sparrows pecking at a stack
of dried weedstalks are totally unaware of him.
His loins as smooth as a cartoon beach,
he doesn't hibernate because he does not live.
He doesn't slumber because he does not move.
He has been given the expression of one
ready to drink, but he never does.

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